Triad
by FallenAngelCyril
Summary: TO: LuCT.  The tales lie: the only gleam on the knight's armor is blood, the vagrant is crass, not charming, and the princess is most certainly not pure and innocent.  An alternate take on 4L. DenamCatiuaVyce.
1. Breeze

When one first plays through Chapter 4, it's easy to notice how _perfectly _everything goes for Denam's army and how everything possible goes wrong for Loslorien. Tartaros and Balxephon make some questionable strategic decisions and seem almost purposely ignorant of the situation.

I don't like this, as both an author and a gamer.

I want to see a more intelligent Balxephon, as he is their strategist according to Barbas, yet he does little more than give orders from the side and carry a sword around under his robe.  
>I want to see a different Denam, one who is not quite so perfect and has thoughts that go beyond "Valeria, Catiua, Lodis, Brantyn."<br>I want to see the relationship hinted at in all paths between Catiua and Vyce examined. Why toss such a plot to the side and then suddenly bring it back for one scene at the end of CODA?  
>Why does Chaos Vyce react with such utter hostility towards Denam and his "superior" upbringing, yet nothing at all is mentioned about their respective families and their class differences in Law? Why does Vyce lose all of his racism and anger towards the Bakram, when he bluntly tells Cistina he does not want Dorgalua's rule to be repeated? Yes, I want to explore these too.<p>

This is my take on 4L. It was originally intended as a prolonged one-shot, but soon grew too long. It starts off close to canon, but almost immediately veers off in a different direction, one that is not so perfectly favorable for our young heroes.

_**Breeze  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>"Don't you remember, sister? You were always so pleased with yourself whenever Denam would walk about declaring he was to be your husband!"<p>

He knew it was likely due to his excess consumption of alcohol on the cool night, even though the wine bottle was emptied well over an hour before, but said man felt color rise in his cheeks. He turned his face away from Sherri Phoraena's smile - truly a wicked one, that - and towards the fireplace to his left in desperate attempt to hide his embarrassment at her playful words. Denam Morne purposely ignored the vibrant giggles of the two women in the room, far too loud to be the chimes a proper woman's laughter should be, and stared at flames as they licked over the damp wood. The logs did not burn well in their current state, all smoke and little warmth; most of the heat in the room was internal from the alcohol. The bottle had not been full when they started earlier in the evening, so the alcohol only served to loosen Denam and Sherri's normally strictly controlled emotional responses and gave them a sense of liberation they so rarely felt in the midst of war. Olivya had the least wine of the trio, but it seemed to affect her the most, for on her face was a bright smile and she giggled like a young girl who received a gift from a man she long admired.

"You're just as cute as you were twelve years ago, Denam." Sherri continued, but Denam could hear the laughter in her voice. He wondered if 'twas his imagination, or if he truly heard Olivya's soft giggles as she murmured her agreement beside her sister. Denam had the grace to take compliments well despite his lowered inhibitions and nodded in response with a smile, but would give the two women no more satisfaction than that. It both surprised and pleased the commander to see the sisters so happy; Sherri was such a dour thing, sad, quiet, lonely, and Denam knew she hid her pain well. Olivya was a woman who looked like she should constantly smile, yet kept herself busy enough that it never reached her eyes. Both of the women were aloof, but it was a way they protected themselves. Denam and Olivya were similar in that regard, for neither had time for themselves - or they kept themselves busy so that they did not have the face the harshness that was reality; it was these small events, together in the warm room protected from the harsh weather that beat down upon Phidoch, with the stars hidden away behind the raging clouds in the sky, that gave them the time they both desperately needed to relax and bond with those who shared their heart. Denam turned back to the women completely after a moment, when the color faded from his cheeks; he did not remember how that conversation started, but he knew that if Sherri was anything like his Catiua, she would latch onto his weakness and exploit it whenever she desired a reaction from him. It was not often that Denam showed such emotion, and when he did, it was worthwhile to note.

"That's more than enough of that." Denam forced his words firm, but his hidden smile at the brunette women told them his stern words did not indicate he was upset. A momentary bout of embarrassment would not set him into anger, he had tougher hide than that. Sherri looked down at her empty goblet with a pout, she had more wine than Olivya and Denam put together and she certainly did not need any more, before she shakily poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher that was on the large table alongside the empty wine bottle. The normally-composed woman's hair was a mess and fell in her face and she had long lost her cloak, likely somewhere on the floor. She did not seem to care when, every so often, her cleavage fell openly out of her dress, breasts far larger than her sister's, and dress cut so it purposely revealed more of her than the more moderate Sibyl. Denam was honorable man enough not to look, but he also did not know how to quite bring up the subject '_Sherri, your breasts fall from your dress' _in a mature manner. Olivya, too, looked more disheveled than her normally controlled appearance allowed; her well-kept hair was twisted around the charm she kept around her forehead and for some reason she had removed both of her socks. Like her sister, she, too, had lost her cloak and wore only her pale blue cloth that marked her of the church. But where it was Sherri's breasts that were exposed, Olivya's legs showed far more than was decent for any woman, married or otherwise. Was Denam more of right mind, he would have removed his own shirt to cover her, but as he was, warm, comfortable, and entirely too defenseless for his own good without armor, more, he barely paid any heed to the two attractive woman, who he only just began to reacquaint himself with. They were not objects for him to stare lewdly at, no matter their dress – or their lack of it. In truth, no matter his rationalization he simply did not wish to remove his shirt, no matter how proper it might have been to do so.

"Sherri, please tell me about the day we met." The young commander finally forced the subject away from Olivya and the earlier topic of their childhood infatuation with each other. Though their meeting had been meant to bond the sisters and Denam together, and give the newly-found Sherri a sense of belonging she did not have when in Heim, it had eventually turned into a discussion of the past, most of which Denam did not remember. The older Denam's memories, the less he recalled them; he had Olivya and, to a greater extent, Sherri fill in the blanks for him. He had been far too young at the time to visualize little more than faces, colors, and emotions that varied from confusion, desperation, sadness, happiness, and laughter. He was finally able to piece together what particular emotions and feelings meant and represented. It was an odd sense of self-identity that he had lost that was slowly regained as he spent more time with the Phoraena family.

Sherri paused her sip and placed the glass of water of the table in-between she, Olivya and Denam. "I was little more than a decade then, but let's see." Sherri mused, hand on her cheek and she stared at the stone roof, lost in thought. "You were three, maybe four. Your sister, Catiua, played with us for years before you were brought to the manor for the first time. I'm not sure why Prancet did not allow you to come as well - your age, perhaps? Ah, but I digress. You were shy, scared, I would liken you to a doe in the forest." Sherri turned her gaze down to Denam, her smile, a precious rarity that the commander knew he should cherish, was still small and secretive and she pressed her hands together against her chest. She seemed to be quite fond of this memory. Olivya, too, had quieted and all of her attention was on the elder sister. "You clutched your father's hand as if it was a rock in the midst of a hurricane. It was not until Cistina poked at you that you pulled away from him." Olivya giggled at the image; though the thought of a precocious Cistina, curious about the odd newcomer, made him smile as well, what drew his attention was the implication of Sherri's unsaid words. Denam was pleased that the two women could discuss their fallen sisters without pain. Denam wished he was so strong; the very thought of his father brought upon a sharp pang and a sense of weak desperation. He forced the despair away as he imagined, in greater detail, a small hand encircled tightly around his 'Pa's, as Cistina poked at him with a stick like a foreign creature - or, if she was like her sisters, perhaps a piece of meat. "But, truth be told Denam, I did not spend nearly as much time with you as Olivya. Those years were the most critical in our, Cerya and I, education, we spent much time in our studies and, when we did not, we simply watched you two from afar. I will admit, at that age we viewed you as naught but annoyances."

Denam's spirit faded lightly at Sherri's blunt admission, but he certainly could not blame her. He, too, had found those younger than him obnoxious at that age. Olivya, not nearly as calm or accepting as Denam and not nearly as respectful, glared at her sister for her rudeness. Denam held back his chuckle at the look; Olivya was simply not meant for firm glares, she was far too soft and it intimidated him far less than it amused him. Her voice was high in pitch, which only accented her youthful displeasure. "You musn't be like that, Sherri! Denam wishes to know about times long forgotten and all you do is speak as if he was an 'annoyance'?" Sherri did not bother to hide her amusement and her already-red face turned even brighter as she held back outright laughter. Olivya's brows furrowed together and her fists clenched against the end of the large armchair she sat at, her nails dug into the thick leather and she bit down on her bottom lip. Denam, too, suppressed laughter at her livid response, but interrupted before the younger of the two before she could explode in her rage. He could barely keep the amusement from his voice.

"What I remember most was your supper table." The image flashed brightly in his mind, warm, open, very large compared to what he grew up with in Golyat, well-lit with many candelabra and a small chandelier; Denam would never forget the latter, for he had only very rarely seen such things since then. They were signs of one truly wealthy and powerful family. "I admit, I don't remember what we ate, I simply remember the event to be chaos embodied." In Denam's mind flashed a constant struggle between sisters and parents and servants. Where sisters yelled about they did and did not want, where parents scolded, and servants ran about in a panic in attempt to listen to the orders of both the young girls and their parents. Denam did not need to be told that he was likely sent there by his father for prolonged trips over the course of his childhood if he remembered dining with them. It seemed his relationship with the Phoraena family went beyond play – and that his father was a far busier man that the one he had known in Golyat.

"Oh yes, that reminds me!" Sherri burst out suddenly. Denam's reverie and memories were shattered and Sherri enthusiastically spoke; she acted a completely different woman, as if the past brought back the person she used to be. Denam enjoyed her smiles; it was for they which he fought. "You were so well mannered. A perfect little prince, Cerya once said. I don't quite think Catiua paid nearly as much attention to her lessons as you."

Denam's heart leapt at the mention of Catiua, both with warmth and a deep regret, but his alcohol-induced lightness did not allow him to dwell upon it. It was a later memory than the ones with the Phoraenas, but the Bakram man saw himself and Catiua at the table with Vyce and both the young Pavels had scolded Vyce for his atrocious mannerisms while at _their _table. As Sherri said, Denam had always done well for himself when it came to manners; he strictly followed the rules of the supper table and event went as far as to treat his sister like a proper lady and pull her chair for her. Denam remembered his lessons quite elaborately; they had been incredibly strict and were repeated for hours upon hours a day until he was perfect and it became natural for him. He could even repeat the words his trainer had used; it had not been his father, but a different man who had taught him. Perhaps a younger Mreuva? Denam didn't know. He supposed it didn't matter, as it had little to do with the subject at hand. If he even bothered to remember the question or thought tomorrow, it would likely come to him when he had a clearer head for his past.

"And Catiua?" Denam tried cautiously; he only knew the Catiua he grew up with, he was fascinated by what influenced her – other than him, of course. If Denam had been subtly molded by his past with the sisters, perhaps Catiua, too, had been influenced by the Phoraena family. "What can you tell me of her?"

To Denam's surprise, it was not Sherri who spoke, but Olivya. She had been silent for a time as Denam and Sherri shared their words and she looked weary, her eyes with large circles under them. After her small fit of anger, she slumped deeply in her chair as she leaned upon the armrest for support as she looked to Denam. "Where Cistina always looked up to Cerya, Catiua was quite fond of Sherri." This earned a nod from the elder woman. Was Denam more alert, he probably would have mused on the similarities and differences between his sister and the second Phoraena - perhaps another time – for he could see them as clearly as his face in a mirror. "Whenever Catiua wasn't with Sherri, she always foiled our plots with her tattles." Olivya giggled quietly and earned another light smile from Denam and Sherri. No matter how severe they had ended up as adults, perhaps they were mischievous as children after all. "To be quite honest, I don't think she liked it when Denam's attention was on anyone but her."

The Sibyl sat back in her chair as she finished. She looked exhausted. Sherri noticed it too and both she and Denam shared a common understanding with one another. Sherri had been a member of the Bakram army for some time and was a well-practiced Witch, where Denam was used to long, sleepless nights and exhaustion not only from his time in the Resistance, but from when he hid after Golyat had been destroyed. At that time, Denam and Vyce had been so worried that neither slept for days until either collapsed, bodies run down and weary, thin from lack of nourishment. Catiua would heal them as best she could, but without proper food and water she was limited in what she could do. Denam sighed as he looked onto the Sibyl; Olivya pretended to be strong, but she was perhaps the most fragile of them all. Her whole life had been as nobility and then within the safe walls of the Church. Did she know suffering and need? Her time in the Resistance was likely difficult for her. Denam's mind cleared of its fog slowly; it had been well over an hour since his last drink and such powerful thoughts made concentration easier. How blind could he have been? Olivya was not the strong woman she pretended to be.

As he stared at the vulnerable woman, he supposed it was soon time for rest, for all of them, but he was not quite ready to give up the warmth and familiarity of the quite family setting they had built up yet. 'Twas a time of happiness for them, of warm memories and nostalgia, of kindness, of a time where the pain of loss did not sting so deeply. This night would not last forever, no matter how he wished it so, and Denam was unwilling to give it up so easily. He didn't mind if Olivya fell asleep, it likely would be a more peaceful sleep here, in the presence of Sherri and Denam, than one alone in her own room. The young commander took the initiative over Sherri and stood from his place on the couch, as he did so, he picked up a pillow. He walked over as quietly as he could to the Sibyl's chair; she smiled up at him with wide, watery eyes as the young man learned down and placed the couch's pillow behind her, and then lowered her head onto it. The young woman clutched at Denam's hand, as if she wanted him to rest near her, to which Denam gently released - it was not his place to take advantage of a young sleepy woman so - before he turned back to Sherri and sat down on the couch across from her.

"Did you have a brother?" Denam mused quietly, as to not disturb Olivya, his mind on his earlier internal questions. The Cleric was not yet asleep, but Denam could tell she was on the verge as she cuddled into the large pillow, her knees were drawn up close to her and her breaths long and drawn out; she would have looked very much like an innocent child had her thighs not been exposed in a very inappropriate fashion. Denam's eyes wandered dangerously up the pale flesh before he realized his actions and turned away in shame. After Olivya's revelation about his father, small memories of his youth had started to float back. Denam had been so focused on the Walister, Valeria, Lodis, and the war that he realized he had forgotten so much. He had forgotten what it was to be _Denam_ and not just the_ Hero of Golyat. _One of his most prominent memories was of a male - definitely not Vyce, for he was far younger than the man Denam remembered, who had told stories to him of grand knights and fair maidens. Pa certainly had not done such, for his stories had always been of Philaha. Denam did not know if it was the same person who had taught him his manners.

Sherri tilted her head to the side and shook her head as if the question had been unexpected. "Brantyn perhaps?" Sherri offered; Denam did not realize how openly he expressed his shock until his elder continued. "Don't look so surprised, Brantyn was not always like. . .this. Ambitious, yes, but I do believe he was quite fond of you." Denam searched his memory, but clouded as it was by the remains of the alcohol and the utter shock of the thought of Brantyn as 'kind' he did not get farther than the feel of comfort and kindness and intense interest for whatever his companion spoke about. He could not deny Sherri's proposal that Brantyn had some part in his upbringing, nor could he confirm it, but in the current strife the thought of such warm actions from the Regent of the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom was extraordinary. "You always were quite good at that. Dragging people about to your will, that is." Denam was surprised at Sherri's rapid change in the topic of conversation. What did this have to do with Brantyn? Or perhaps Denam had simply focused on Brantyn so thoroughly he had forgotten what the earlier discussion was about. "Your big watery eyes worked often enough, but when they didn't you always had a backup plan. You got your way more often than Prancet or my father would dare admit."

Denam was shocked at the playful accusation. He never quite thought of himself like that - the contrary, 'twas he who lectured Catiua about her desire to see events go her way. Denam was glad he seemed to have grown out of that phase, or at least he hoped. Perhaps that was what Vyce complained about whenever he snapped that Denam always had to be the leader? The Bakram man frowned internally; perhaps he did not quite know himself as well as he thought he did. The silence between the two dragged for a time, comfortable. The fire finally got itself started over the disagreeable wood and crackled loudly, the only sound in the room that interrupted the harsh beat of rain upon the castle walls and Olivya's consistent, deep breaths as she slept. His insecurity faded as he reveled in the moment. This was what he fought for: the safety, the peace, the companionship of friends.

"Thank you, Sherri." Denam's voice was softer than he intended, and he did not know if said woman heard more than a mumble. "You've given me a wonderful gift." _Renewed reason _- and some warmth in a time when Denam most doubted himself. He would never say such aloud, of course, but he felt as if he regained some sense of himself - to not just act a leader. He was refreshed, liberated.

"No." Sherri walked over to Denam boldly, who stood in response, her stride surprisingly controlled despite of her earlier excess consumption of alcohol. "Thank you. You saved me when I needed it most. You spoke the words none other would." She encircled her arms around Denam and hugged him close. Denam mimicked the motion, his hands ran up and down her back and through her hair fondly; she was even more thinly built than Olivya, perhaps too thin, as she had been in hiding in Balmamusa less than a week previous, and Denam felt almost like she would break if he pressed too hard into their warm, familial embrace. Denam would not call it familiar, for Catiua was not so warm and passionate in her hugs, but it was certainly welcome. She was short, she barely reached his shoulders, or perhaps Denam was simply taller than he realized – yet more evidence that Denam did not know himself. Their hug ended hesitantly with none of the youthful embarrassment that many might feel at such an action. Sherri looked down at Olivya before she put her hands on her hips, a stern look on her features. So _that_ was where Catiua learned the look. "I'll take care of her. Go rest, _Commander_." Her tone was playful and had not lost its familiarity. "You need it more than all of us."

Denam nodded. As he leaned over Olivya and lightly kissed her cheek as well, his bangs fell over her face and Denam worried he might have woken her. The young Sibyl did not stir, as exhaustion had gotten the better of the youngest Phoraena. Denam smiled down at her and took in one last moment of uncharacteristic warmth before he stood. Sherri walked Denam through the small room to its large, thick wooden door, built for strength and efficiency more than attractive appearance. Denam kneeled by his informal boots, new and comfortable, but not suited for battle so Denam did not wear them often, as Sherri leaned against the wall and spoke.

"Oh, and Denam -" Denam glanced up at the woman who seemed to have lost her amusement and was replaced with all the sternness one would expect from an elder sister. "She won't say it, but you are everything Olivya strives to be." Before Denam could question the brunette, she elaborated, quietly, as if she did not want Olivya to hear. "She seeks to be strong and able to fight her own battles. She admires your confidence, but it is clear to all of us that she is not Cerya nor will she ever be. More, she seeks prominence; the girl fades away into the background around others, as if they forget her existence."

"You give me too much credit." Denam spoke more loudly than Sherri as he stood up, boots tied. The supple leather warmed his feet and would protect against the cool stone of Phidoch's halls. "I do what is necessary; I suffer just any normal person because of it."

"Let her dream. All young women need someone to look towards, one who keeps them strong and secure. Olivya is no different, especially now that mother is gone. In her eyes, you are immortal." Sherri, despite being a woman, walked past Denam and opened the door for him. Was it anyone else, he would have been shocked at such a display, but he let it be because his mood was still far too light. As Denam nodded respectfully to Sherri and passed through the door, the woman's words echoed through him, more chill than the air of the empty hallway "Don't let her down."

* * *

><p>The pub was filthy.<p>

Denam outwardly held back his cringe as he walked, or, more accurately, pushed, his way through the rowdy tavern in what seemed to be exactly the center of Rhime. It was a large place, built to hold at least three score, and the walls inside were weathered and worn from years of customers and drunken brawls. If he ran an ungloved hand over the tables, he would likely get a splinter. For such a prominent establishment for merchants, traders, women who sold themselves, the black markets, and whatever other distasteful practices Denam could not name off the top of his head, the Bakram was amazed by its lack of upkeep. Denam kept his head down and his eyes from their tendency to stray, he knew it was better to mind his own business in a place like this. So long as he didn't bother others, they wouldn't bother him. With his hair brushed back formally instead of its normal casual loose bangs over his face and in common clothes with no armor, though he did bring his sword with him, Denam hoped he would not be easily recognized. He had grown up Walister and in his heart he considered himself such; he knew the people, and the accents, well enough to blend in.

The Bakram man made his way over to the bartender and ordered a drink as he haphazardly tossed his coin down and glanced over the tables. Many were filled with loud groups who, from what Denam could hear, spoke openly about their assaults or were young braggarts who took pride in their first hunt. Denam shook his head at the patron who asked if he would like anything else as he took his mug and politely slid his way between chairs, tables, and the warm bodies to a small two-person table in the back corner, far away from the door. Denam chuckled as he put his ale down; such a cliché spot to meet someone, he might well have been in a story. Denam looked on at the citizens; in truth, this was a place Vyce was far more suited for than he. If his father would have known he came to such an establishment, he would have been horrified; he had been raised better than that. It was arrogant of him, he knew, but this was not the place a man like Denam normally frequented. He was the son of an Abuna, one well trained and well mannered, who helped others and thought little of himself, one who loyally lived in the light of the Great Father Philaha. He had not even _stepped _into a tavern until Vyce and he secretly slipped him into Golyat's most prominent waterfront establishment on the eve of his fourteenth celebration of birth. He had been less than impressed then and he was even less amused now; it was the smell that overpowered him most. Denam had long since grown used to the smell of countless dirty, sweaty, men in long marches, but these men looked and smelled as if they could not even wipe after they relieved themselves. They were the shame of the Walister; Denam did not blame outside Bakram and Galgastani who saw these men and reacted with disgust, they would be right to do so.

Denam took another sip of the ale, it was not particularly strong and almost felt watered down as if it was too mass-produced to truly be quality, and tilted his mug about in effort to distract himself from the chaotic assembly around him. He did not have to wait long before a new man joined him at his table without a word. Denam knew this one, it was the entire reason he subjected himself to these people; despite his guest's thick clothes and shadowed face that was covered by a large hat and a high coat, the Bakram commander nodded. This man was one of most well connected shadows. This particular man had contacts that ran deeply and went well beyond Rhime; Denam had personally taken advantage of his sources in Coritanae, Heim, Almorica, and even his own Phidoch. If Denam asked for anything, be it information or items, he could get it. It was difficult to gain the trust and assistance of such influential men like him, but the Resistance commander paid well; it also helped that by sheer coincidence that the shadow happened to be a Walister supremacist. Serving Denam helped further his cause, but the Bakram Resistance commander knew it would be better if this particular shadow did not learn of Denam's true origins.

"We've found her." The man spoke with a heavy traditional Walister accent, one Vyce shared, but it was rasped and quiet, muffled lightly behind the thick clothes that masked his appearance.

"I need details." Denam took another sip of the ale before he placed it aside in disgust, his attention fully on the other man. There was no need to keep up the charade any longer; it was a foul drink.

"Of course. She was seen practicing alongside Dark Knights in Barnicia Castle, in the north Regent Brantyn's territory." The man spoke in a bored tone, but respectful, and held out his hand, gloved in black leather. Denam nodded and took the small pouch he carried on him from his belt and placed the Goth into the shadow's greedy fingers.

"Thank you for your assistance." Denam watched as the shadow quickly glanced through the coin; they had worked together long enough that the Walister man trusted Denam to pay him as promised - as Denam always did - but it was understandable that he count anyway. "As discussed, the rest will be given to your. . .aide in Phidoch. I assume this is satisfactory?" This particular shadow's arts did not run cheaply, especially for such dangerous and difficult tasks such as those Denam requested. Such a large transfer of Goth was far too risky in public, particularly if one considered the nature of those who commonly dwelled in this particular tavern.

"It has been excellent working with you, Sir, as always. Have you any other _special _requests?" Despite his shady profession, his contact was not only a respectful man, but also lacked greed. For many other men, his voice would have rang of pleasure at the gold he received, but the Walister shadow seemed to care little about the reward beyond paying his own information network and instead assisted because he supported Denam's cause. It was one of the reasons the Resistance leader continued to work with him.

"No, stay with our standard arrangement." The man was to watch for any valuable information that spoke of plans, movements, and possible uprisings of the Lodissians and Bakram, as well as any issues the Walister and Galgastani nobles spoke of that went against Denam's orders. At his acquaintance's nod, Denam stood. Denam did not often meet with his shadows in person, let alone with no guard, but information on Catiua was far too important to send via his messengers and parchment. The Lodissians and Bakram watched his actions and Denam worried they would intercept an important, high-priority message. To have Catiua moved because the Lodissians learned Denam knew of their presence would have started his search anew, more wasted time and manpower that he could not risk.

Denam nodded in return to the man before he began his journey through the bodies. No one cared about his discussion, for meetings such as his were all together too common in this particular tavern to be noteworthy. It was not that no one saw him, quite the opposite, it was simply that it was a silent, unspoken contract that one was not to speak of what they saw. Denam, too, passively acknowledged the rule and did not bother to glance at the corners, dark in both figurative and literal sense, where there were yet more arrangements like his own discussed.

Denam pushed open the large doors and breathed deeply in Rhime's air, still fresh from the harsh rains that ended only a few days prior. It was warm and dry, if he ignored the still-wet cobblestones that made up the streets, compared to the sticky humidity of the closed-off bar. The midday sun was high and the city was bright; there was little evidence of Denam's battle with Loslorien and the Bakram only three scales previous. Walister and Galgastani walked through the streets and trade seemed to bustle, with the large central shopping district filled with countless citizens, shopkeepers and their wares, and even soldiers. The city, in odd contradiction to its historical nature as a site of racial conflict and tension, was one of the few places where Galgastani and Walister freely intermingled. If Denam really looked, he could find a few Bakram that dotted the area. They had a look to them, different, distant, not quite haughty, but their manner did not fit. Denam knew that well; even as he had aged he had not quite been the same as the other Walister in Golyat. His father's influence, no doubt, as his father, too, had been different than the people of the port city. Catiua and Denam had been seen as proper, perhaps even spoiled children. In truth, they had not been raised any differently than the Walister children, other than their emphasis on religion, their father had simply been stern on both their manners and what he considered to be "proper." Both Denam and Catiua were loyal followers of Philaha and though Denam lacked the skill in priesthood that his father and Catiua shared, he still followed the ways of the Great Father. The bias that their upbringing had been privileged likely came from Prancet's position; all in the city respected him and his home, on the outskirts of town, was quite large and comfortable. Many came to him for advice and healing, yet more came to him for wisdom, as if he was an elder. As Denam thought on it, his manner of speech and education was more Bakram than Walister, he had to admit, and he'd never shared the accent the rest of the Walister in Golyat had.

As Denam rounded the far corner to the north gate, he was stopped in his tracks. He resisted the urge to draw his blade immediately as he saw what was very obviously an armed and armored Loslorien Templar approach him, with a fast confident stride. Rhime was well within Denam's territory, the Lodissians should not be there – more, how had they known Denam would be away from Phidoch? He had kept his plans hidden. Luck, perhaps, the Wheel cursed him this day. As the two men got within range of each other, the Templar, too, kept his blade in its sheath as he stopped, three paces from Denam. Denam looked flatly into the helmet's eyeslits; if there was one there was likely-

"Sir Denam Morne of the Resistance forces from Almorica?" Denam would have jumped in shock had he not been more surprised at the way the Templars addressed him. The voice came from behind, feminine but masked by her helmet, Lodissian by accent. He cursed his foolishness in that he decided to come alone. He had hoped to get the information and leave before he was noticed. His mind worked quickly; even if Denam had only recently learned who he was, the Dark Knights had his father for some time, yes it made sense they would know. But their loud, vocal declaration worried him. If any had heard his name, problems could arise.

"Who asks?" Said man replied cautiously. From behind he heard the steps of two more Templars approach, the sound of their armor gave them away, and Denam could hear they encircled his sides. One he would have no issue with - he had dueled Ozma's brother in battle and won - two Templars may not be much threat, but that depended on their skills in weaponry and magic, but four, if not five if one remained hidden as he believed, was enough to kill him with ease unless he fled. Worse - he was not armored and had left his supplies, native herbs and flowers he used to heal himself, back in his room in Phidoch. Denam knew he was at a disadvantage. But they did not seem ready to murder him; what did they seek?

"Commander Balxephon Von Rahms of the Dark Knights Loslorien." Denam could not keep the frown from his features. He had met the man once, as he took Phidoch, and Hobyrim and Ozma had spoken enough about Balxephon to tell the Bakram man more than he needed to know about how trustworthy the Dark Knight was. Balxephon had not been hostile to Denam in the way Oz was; he felt more as if he had been judged by the elder. He had read Denam like a book, a feat none but perhaps Catiua could do. The Lodissian had thrown Denam's weaknesses in his face and brought back unpleasant thoughts, memories, and regrets of his actions that he thought himself long past.

"If that is the case, you've the wrong man." His tone was dry and his words sarcastic as he grasped the hilt of his sword in caution, a necessity in case events came to blood. The Lodissians knew who he was whether or not they questioned him and there was no question the Templars who had been tasked to find him had Denam surrounded; if he was to go down, he would do so fighting. The Templars immediately noticed his tenseness and took a step back, as if to show they continued to treat in peace. Denam allowed himself to raise an eyebrow in surprise at the space they gave him - that had certainly been unexpected. The Lodissian in front of him raised his hands, palms upward to show they were empty, as if to demonstrate he meant no harm; Denam did not believe it for a moment.

"Sir, none of us wish for this to turn to violence. The Commander simply wishes to parley." _Parley. _Denam repeated with a sardonic amusement in his head. Just like Loslorien wanted to parley with the fake 'rebels' in Golyat? With Rhime? With Hobyrim - they even attacked their own with Ozma! No, Denam had no interest in their 'parley.'

"We are told it will take little of your time. He is little more than a few moments away." The woman from behind him spoke. Her accent was not nearly as strong as Ozma's, nor was her manner as firm. It was her words that struck him silent for a long moment before he willed his voice to speak.

"Balxephon is here?" He could not keep the shock from his voice. His mind worked frantically as he worked to glean a reason for their presence. _Why? What does Tartaros' Second have to do in Rhime?_ Perhaps he came for the same reason Denam did – to speak with one of his whisperers? It was enough that the Templars were in his territory, but one of their ranked Commanders? He cursed; he lacked the men for stricter border controls and the Lodissians apparently knew his orders well enough to slip under his nose. Worse - what could they want? Did they seek to incite rebellion? Or perhaps even attack Denam's flank and retake Phidoch? They did not have the men for the latter; the total strength of Denam's forces outnumbered Lodis' unless the Bakram assisted them. If his shadows and Ozma spoke truly, the Dark Knights and Brantyn had a falling out of sorts - perhaps "disagreement" was a better description, for Brantyn had no intention of giving Catiua the throne. If the Lodissian Commander thought Denam would deal with Brantyn for him, he would quickly learn how mistaken he was.

"Sir, please follow us." The female Templar from behind him took two steps forward and lightly poked at him to push him forward in the intended direction. Had it been a Walister woman who did that, he would have been shocked at her boldness, but he almost laughed at the absurdity of an armored Lodissian Knight who poked him in order to ask him to respectfully move. The Bakram held back his annoyance, as well as his sardonic amusement, as he walked forward quickly in the direction he was led. If any saw him, with these Templars, the rumors would be unpleasant - even moreso than the ones he had earlier worried about his relationship with Brantyn. Best get this over with as quickly as possible.

The Templars led him with great efficiency towards the Inn, just to his northwest, no more than forty paces away. Its name, most suitably, was North-Gate Inn for its location in the immediate vicinity of the Northern Gate to and from Rhime. It was not a large building, but unlike the tavern he had earlier entered it was well taken care of and clean. Denam kept his face impassive and forward as he walked between his armored 'guards;' though he had lightly modified his appearance to hide his presence for the meeting with the shadow, it appeared to have more use, as fewer would recognize him as Denam, unarmored and with an his odd casual formality to him. It was not enough to throw off the Lodissians, but Denam knew that they had likely tracked him for some time; his abduction was no coincidence. The Innkeeper and all of the patrons kept their gazes strictly away in effort to pretend they paid no heed to the Templars, for which Denam was glad, but he could hear the quiet, curious whispers about him that questioned who he was, his purpose, and if he was a traitor to Valeria. At the latter, Denam felt a well of disgust internally that he had so passively accepted their demands, but what could he have done? He had no doubt they would have taken him by force, or even killed him. That was a scuffle he could not have dealt with alone.

The wood stairs below their feet creaked at the weight of the Lodissians and Bakram man as they passed through the halls. The walls were plain except for a few portraits, Denam assumed them to be former residents of Rhime, as he recognized none who was portrayed in them, and candleholders, well-used and dripped with a thick wax. There was a large window at one end of the upper hall that allowed fresh air to flow in; it was entirely a dull and boring place. In that sense, the inconspicuous inn was excellent because it lacked any prominent traits, just what one did not wish to be found looked for - even more perfect, because one did not expect a Loslorien commander to visit such an average establishment.

The Templar in front of him stopped before a small door two rooms away from the end of the hall. Denam approached and the Templar knocked three times before gave a nod before he pushed the door open and entered. He held the door for Denam, who continued forward at the not-so-subtle urge of the Templars behind him. The room inside was not expansive, nor was it expensive. The guest chamber was small enough for one or two, likely the other Templars had rooms elsewhere, and its most prominent feature other than the clean, well-made and unused bed in the corner was its large table in the center of the room used for dining or, in the Dark Knight's case, work. Atop the table were countless parchment in both piles and stray about, with an organization that only their owner could follow; Denam knew that look, it was an almost perfect mirror image of his own work desk in Phidoch when he dealt with reports. Denam's eyes made their way up the table to the owner. There was nothing unexpected about the man, he looked just as Denam remembered, red robe, groomed and meticulously cut hair, dark armor, but Denam found himself surprised at the meeting. It felt oddly informal, as if he saw a side of the elder man that only his allies saw: one who surrounded himself with his work, not simply the calm professional he showed when Denam and Leonar had gone to Phidoch for Ronwey, the villain Denam had met when he took the castle from under him, or the dark sibling Hobyrim had spoken about. But appearances were deceiving; it would be a terrible mistake to let his guard down around the Lodissian. Denam's eyes found their way to the corner of the room, where he saw the large spear he knew to be Balxephon's weapon of choice that leaned on the wall.

"Walking about with no personal guard? Bold - or foolish. The inexperience of youth." The man did not even look up as he continued to write, his long quill scratched loudly across the parchment in the uncomfortable silence of the room. He raised his left hand, the one he did not write with, and the Templars left the room and closed the door firmly behind them. Denam risked a glance around and saw that he truly was alone, though he did not doubt the guards remained just outside and awaited a simple word from their commander before they would rush in to his defense. "You will not make the same mistake again." The Dark Knight Balxephon finally looked up from his parchment and placed his quill back into the inkwell as if bored. He did not condescend in his manner, it was merely a flat statement, a fact.

"Why have called me here? Would it not be better to kill me and be done with it?" Denam could not keep the spite from his voice or the hate from his eyes, which glared with a fire that would do Catiua proud. At the thought, he was instantly reminded of Catiua's openly hostile words to the Loslorien commanders before Balmamusa; Denam had silenced her then, but it seemed he acted in her stead now. His words served no purpose but to antagonize the Dark Knight, Denam knew, but he felt remarkably testy after his 'abduction.' As if to further anger the young man, the Lodissian chuckled. To Denam's rather unpleasant surprise, it reminded him of Hobyrim's rare soft laughter.

"Do stop that, Denam." Denam raised an eyebrow at the informal use of his name, not quite understanding what the elder meant, or even why he had taken on such a tone with him in the first place. "You do not intimidate me." Denam realized his glare had turned dark and forced his face temporarily into its impassive mask he normally wore; it was not like him to show such emotions, or give into such childish bouts of anger, he had best not slip again. "Your death is not something I desire." Were Denam a less cultured man, or of less self-control like Vyce, he would have snapped out that Balxephon's death would most certainly be desirable to him. Instead he kept his breath calm, as if he simply accepted the elder's words, when in truth they only created more turmoil in him. What did he plan? The Lodissian's lack of explanation served only to worry the Bakram further.

"Then perhaps you should allow me to leave and we can both pretend this encounter never occurred." In direct contrast to his calm words, Denam's imagination vividly imaged running his sword through the man, with each detail, the way his flesh tore, the sound of his clothes as they ripped, his gasps of Balxephon's shock all spread within him. He was amazed at his own brutality; his hatred had been held in for so long that even the normally-calm Resistance commander could not keep his emotions in check. Or perhaps that simply made him more dangerous; where Vyce was open and blunt, he often spoke about murdering Martym and Barbas in revenge, Denam held his hatred within secretly, to show proper face. But Denam's emotions boiled and lacked Vyce's constant verbal catharsis. With Balxephon before him, Denam worried he might well give in to more primal desires, especially after Hobyrim's recent story that shook Denam to his core. It was not only Golyat this man had helped in the slaughter of, how many other lives had he stolen in his revolution? Worst of all, he was a kinslayer.

As if in time with his thoughts, the Lodissian chuckled again as he looked Denam up and down. He had a surprisingly pleasant expression of his face, but the look only warned him yet more of the danger of unpredictable foes. The Bakram did not even bother to hide his hostile body language, even as he kept his expression flat, as the Dark Knight spoke in the rich way of his where his words held his emotions more than his face did. "You've caused me no end of problems, young man." The tone was comparable to a father scolding his son. "Phidoch was no issue, that was planned, as was the support of the Order of Philaha. But you've forced me into a perilous political predicament by allowing Ozma and my brother to remain together out of my grasp. Worse - the Princess remains disobedient to all but you. She listens to not a word the High Champion says. Let us not forget that whole affair with Prancet - traitor that he was."

"Planned." Denam was amazed at how flat his voice sounded to his ears. He did not like the implication behind Balxephon's words, but he also did not have time to muse on it, for he worried more about why the man was so open about the political situation. Some of what he discussed would be imperative information in regards to the Dark Knights' position. Denam locked the words away, but he knew better than to put too much trust in them, for the words could be meant as lies meant to manipulate and control. His father was no traitor to anyone, he had only spoken when broken beyond repair. "I could say much the same of you and the troubles you brought upon Valeria." Denam took a deep breath; the air smelled of a familiar fragrance that he could not quite place, but he definitely knew it. "I am sure you did not summon me to speak to me of pleasantries, Sir Balxephon. I'd much rather speak business."

Balxephon nodded in acceptance of the Resistance commander's words and picked up a small glass of water that was on the table and took a long sip. He motioned to the large open pitcher and the nearby empty glasses as if to offer Denam some; instinctually, Denam shook his head to decline before he realized the foolishness of the situation and looked away. Was he being mocked?

"Your hold on the South is tenuous." Were his plain words; as with before, they did not condescend, nor were they meant to provoke, but held a simple truth that Denam wished he could deny, but he above all knew how rightfully true they were. The Galgastani may no longer be under Balbatos, but that did not simply do away with years of ethnic hatred. Peace may officially be declared between the peoples, but acceptance and equality was on a distant horizon. It was perhaps Denam's and the Resistance's presence alone that kept the two major factions in the south from in-fighting. Denam said nothing in refusal to show the Lodissian his weakness, but it was not necessary for him to respond. Balxephon knew he was right and it irked the Bakram in turn. "All it would take is a few words and that control would slip away."

"What are you saying?" Denam felt a chill within him, even if Balxephon's tone remained warm and respectful. Balxephon tilted his water glass about as he stared at Denam, their eyes met and neither would look away.

"It really is quite the shame so many saw you come meet with me today, is it not? Alone, in secret, dressed as if you've something to hide. Or perhaps the commons would be pleased to learn that the man who raised you was blood brother to Brantyn Morne - the same man who abducted the Princess from her very cradle. Or that you're not the Walister you claim to be." Balxephon took another sip of his water and Denam felt his fists clench. They were all true, no doubt, but with various levels of lies set within them. Catiua had certainly not been "abducted" by Prancet and Denam did not speak to Balxephon willingly. "A few would stay with you, no doubt. Those who trust you most, but how long could you hold to the support of the people when they learn the truth?" To Denam's surprise, Balxephon laughed loudly, unlike before, this was a sarcastic sound, as if he was annoyed as well, before he spoke again. "It need not even be the truth, but they will believe it, the fools. Did you know word in Heim is that Ozma left because she was enamored with you?" Denam could not keep a straight face at that, but was not sure whether to laugh, shocked, or be horrified. His face contorted with an odd mixture of all three that only caused Balxephon to laugh more. "Not to worry - 'tis nothing inherently wrong with you - the people simply believe what they are fed and I have quite a bit of information for them to feast upon."

"You threaten me." Denam clenched his fists. It was all he could do to remain stationary. At last, the true motive behind their discussion was revealed. He closed his eyes and focused on his deep breaths. _Killing him serves no purpose save to get yourself killed._ Denam rationally told himself. After a few moments of tenseness, Denam calmed; if Balxephon thought he would give into petty threats, he was mistaken. It pained him to admit, but the Dark Knight spoke a bitter truth: the people would believe what they chose to and would turn a blind eye when it suited them, but such an uprising certainly would not decimate all of his support. Denam was certain. He trusted his troops.

"Smart boy." Balxephon took another sip of his water, apathetic.

"I will not stand for this!" He finally bit out. The anger was not in his voice, but Denam allowed his indignant response to hold more strength than his usual calm words. He continued to stare at Balxephon, whose interest in Denam seemed to have dwindled slightly, for the Dark Knight was no longer completely focused, he seemed distracted, as if there was something else on his mind.

"I was not aware that I gave you a choice." As expected, Balxephon's reply was clipped and curt. A frown made its way across his features as he stood from his table with a deep sigh. He did not put the glass of water down, and continued to take small sips as he spoke and paced to and fro. "I admit I've made some. ..mistakes. Prancet was an irrational fool, Brantyn blinded by his own greed. But you are not like them, no, you've a good head on your shoulders, I've seen to that. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement that benefits both of us without having to resort to the use of such messy, barbaric tactics."

"Do not speak of my father if you knew him." Denam bit back his anger just in time, outraged that the Lodissian who claimed to be a Knight of the church would speak so badly of the dead. "I will not deal with Lodis. Slander me all you wish, words will not break the Valerian people." His tone regained its confidence and the young commander used the same strength he did when he spoke to his troops, but his heart was not in it; Balxephon's truth planted the seeds of worry. How long would they endure? How long would they trust, if they'd reason to believe lies? Would he lose the support of all of the Walister if they learned he was Brantyn's nephew? His soldiers had lost faith in him before, after Balmamusa, Denam was no stranger to dissent.

"I would not expect such optimism from you. Or such stubbornness." Balxephon took a sip and tilted his head toward Denam."Do not be so irrational, you are not fool enough to reject a proper agreement before it has even been discussed." Denam cursed at the man, but knew he was right. While Denam likely knew his answer before Balxephon spoke, to reject him simply because of his distaste for Lodissians and their methods would be foolish, even childish.

"Speak." Denam bit out. Balxephon did not stop his bored stride as he did so.

"You seek the Princess, we seek her cooperation. In her current state we fear she might act our rashly. Dangerously." Act out? Of course she would act out, they had stolen her away! She had been emotional from her argument with Denam and the Lodissians preyed on her at her weakest moment. Denam would have been more surprised if she agreed to everything they did. It was a relief to hear Catiua was still herself, and not a brainwashed tool of the Holy Empire.

"You wish me to speak to her and make her more agreeable?" Denam mused, but held back his pleasure. The true reasons for the discussion finally arose; they certainly could not just "abduct" Denam like they had Catiua, he was far too prominent in the political battlefield and most would know he did not go willingly. Loslorien did not use such underhanded tactics openly, they did so in secret, and Denam's life was an open book for those who chose to look.

"In blunt terms, yes." Balxephon faced Denam with a similar flat expression comparable to the one Denam wore in order to hide his intentions. It was too easy. Likely Balxephon sought to deceive the younger man with promises that were easy to complete, then he would tighten his leash with stricter demands and force Denam to fulfill further obligations, an endless cycle of slavery. An appropriate stratagem and Denam even saw the basest benefits he could get from it, namely the return of his sister and more thoroughly united people, but the commander was no fool; he would not give into the Lodissians and their sweet false promises.

"Why would I agree to that?" Denam asked, curious. Balxephon was an intelligent enough man that he would know the Resistance commander would not agree so easily, and to simple threats no less.

"We both wish to see her on the throne with as few complications as possible. Her cooperation is mutually beneficial, not only to Lodis and the Resistance, but to the whole of Valeria." Balxephon finally stopped his paces and turned away from Denam to look out the small window on the wall, as far as Denam could tell the view was nothing special. Denam felt the Dark Knight looked away from him in subtle mockery; the man knew Denam had no intention of attacking him and did not care that he exposed his vulnerable back.

"My sister is not a tool." Denam was annoyed at the Dark Knight's declaration. He knew how the foreigners viewed Catiua, barely as human at all, but he refused to lower himself to their level. Catiua was his sister first, nay, a woman - a _person_ -, before any other position, even if they often argued and disagreed. In his eyes, she would never be the Princess everyone so desperately wished her to be.

"Truly?" Balxephon raised an eyebrow with his sarcastic response in a similar way Denam often did when he scolded Vyce. "You wish to 'save' her and hide her away, then? No - just as we do, you will parade her about and rally those to her aid to garner support before you take Heim from the Regent. Do not think you are any better than I." Denam opened his mouth to deny him immediately, but could not find the words. It was true, to some extent. There were times Denam _had_ thought on how useful Catiua would be to his cause, and how much her absence would damage support for the Dark Knights. Catiua was his sister first, yes, but Denam, too, in his most unbiased, coolly analytical moments, saw her as an object no matter how much he pretended he did not and hated himself for it. He felt a deep well of shame as he admitted the truth to himself. Vyce would have been furious had he heard Denam's internal response, for 'twas his friend who openly scolded Denam about his habits of failing to see people for who they were, rather than as simple tools, the trait Catiua shared with him. It had happened in Brigantys, too, where the young man had spoken sweet promises about Galgastani and Walister unity, and of how there should be lessened tension and hatred. It was not that Denam did not believe such words, as he desperately wished them to hold the truth, but then he had spoken in such a way that would properly draw a reaction and garner support. He was not so blind to see that such peace would not come in his generation, or perhaps even his child's. Denam was more of a politician than he would dare admit aloud.

"Perhaps in goal we are not so different, but 'tis my methods that show I am different from Lodis." Denam finally spoke, his voice weaker than intended. Yes, he and the Lodissians shared the same goal: the end of the war, and Catiua on the throne, but Denam would not -

"Those same _methods_ that left a mountain of corpses in Balmamusa? The ones that tore through the walls of Coritanae and slaughtered its inhabitants until they begged for mercy from your 'justice?' Oh, certainly you did stop - eventually - once Balbatos and his nobles choked on their blood at your feet." Denam clenched his jaw. So it went back to this, always this, and Balxephon had a point that Denam could not deny. Where the Dark Knights had destroyed Golyat, so too had Denam allowed the destruction of Balmamusa; where the Bakram and Lodissians took Rhime, so too had Denam killed many in his attack on Coritanae. Many of the Galgastani supporters of Balbatos had been sadistic in their own right and had deserved no less than death and harsh judgment at the hands of the Great Father, but Denam could well admit that many of the more innocent had fallen to his attacks as well.

"If you seek to offend, you do a poor job of it." Denam felt himself calm as the words released. He knew what he had done and he did not shy away from it. Just as he and Balxephon had spoken in Phidoch on this same issue only a few scales previous. The jabs were a constant pain in Denam's hardened heart, but he was harder on himself than any other could be on him. Balxephon's words angered him only because they brought up a hypocrisy that showed the young Bakram commander was not so different than the Dark Knights he claimed the moral high ground to, not because he was upset at the truth. Denam simply smiled sadly, the words went past him as water and oil slide past each other. If one was constantly burned, another small flame would not cause more damage. Balxephon turned back to Denam and their eyes met once again.

"No, I wish to show you why an arrangement will benefit both of us. We are not so different; you have but simply accept this truth. To save lives, you know that we must often act in vile ways. You rightfully distrust my intentions, but I assure you, Brantyn is an obstacle to both of us and the Princess a strong ally." When he spoke in that manner, Denam almost shook in rage. Did Balxephon compare Denam to himself? Denam would never kill his family for peace – yet was that not what he did with Brantyn, who stubbornly stood in the way of _his _revolution in the same way Balxephon's father stood in the way of Tartaros's? Denam did not like the direction _that_ thought wandered; he could not doubt himself, not now, nor could he let Balxephon's words confuse and manipulate him, just as they were intended. As much as he did not wish to admit it, the Dark Knight's truth pierced his shield and Denam knew he would muse on the statement every evening for the next week, nay, scale, until he once again came to terms with himself. Would he internally justify his actions, as he always did, just to reaffirm his devotion to his country? Worse, as Balxephon implied, was it _necessary _to justify them, or should he accept death as an inevitable consequence of war? Denam steeled himself, as he always did, by pushing his worries aside in attempt to persevere; there would be a time for doubt later, he first had to deal with the Lodissian. Balxephon would not win.

"So you would have me rid these isles of Brantyn so you would be free to take over as you will? I think not. No, Sir Balxephon, I do not believe we can come to an agreement. I do not seek to parley with you, nor do I desire your 'peace.' My goal for Lodis is to see you leave these islands forever." Denam's mask was back, impenetrable and determined. His weakness was for his own time, like any proper politician he was to only show strength around others. The Lodissians were the threat, not he. If Denam was to be judged for his crimes at a later point, and he most certainly deserved to be, he would meet their attacks head on. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

To Denam's surprise, Balxephon smiled and nodded. It was not the dark smile he had earlier, but a pleasant one, as if he respected Denam's wishes. "I see your devotion and I will speak no further. You are free to leave." The immediate change in both subject and demeanor worried the Bakram, but he nodded cautiously as he took a step backwards without turning his back to the Lodissian man, who finally sat back into his chair and looked at the piles of parchment with weariness, as if his talk with Denam had been a welcome distraction. Denam turned away from the man and walked towards the door, but before he could reach it, Balxephon called out. "Oh, and Denam, when you next speak to my brother, ask him about the twelfth of Windscale. He'll know of what I speak."

Denam frowned and turned away. _What in the Wheel was that about? _Denam pushed open the room's door to the surprise of the two Templars outside, who obviously had not expected Denam to simply walk away from the encounter with their commander. Denam ignored their badly hidden curious stares as he walked quickly from the Inn and back out into the streets of Rhime with little care to heed the shocked whispers of the Inn's patrons and inhabitants. He immediately turned toward the gate; the sun was still bright in the sky, he had plenty of time to return to Phidoch and none would question his slightly prolonged absence.

Denam put aside his discomfort from his earlier discussion and brought to mind more pleasant thoughts: He had located Catiua. He would need to recall his forces for the assault on Barnicia and he needed a solid strategy to throw off the Bakram as well, but it seemed the Resistance would be able to move for its next large assault within the scale. Thoughts of Balxephon's threats were nearly non-existent as the young commander focused his attention on the future; Denam trusted his people, they would not betray him to simple words.


	2. Wind

Did you notice, in the "good" Lord ending, Denam still keeps his identity hidden? His followers call him "Pavel" when in Denam's inner dialogue he calls himself "Morne." This implies a subtle distrust and worry that the people will not support him if they realize he is Brantyn's nephew.

It's worthwhile to note that usually (but not always) my chapters end on a time skip of some type, unless it's a very obvious cliffhanger. In these early chapters, expect a few weeks, minimum.

**_Wind_**

* * *

><p>"Nothing."<p>

Olivya's voice barely held back its sadness as she whispered from her chair across the large wooden table that was the primary object of interest in Denam's large meeting room in Phidoch. The commander made a sound of acknowledgment as he continued through his large pile of parchments; though they were strewn about in haphazard organization, if one asked him to find one of the particular reports he would need not search but for more than a moment. He knew what most of the parchments on the table contained, even if it looked like a warzone to someone unfamiliar with his methods. Olivya's report was exactly as he expected when Sherri had requested a small force be taken to Boed Fortress in attempt to find the lost Phoraena sisters, Cerya and Cistina. When approached on the subject, Ozma, who apparently had knowledge of the event far beyond what she would speak, had provided some information on the events that caused the Fortress to burn to the ground. She and her brother had been assigned to the Fort to locate Denam's father, Prancet; Denam had been away from Almorica at the time. Though he had heard word of the Dark Knights' movement, he had paid it little heed; after that line of information went silent and he heard of no more possible hostilities from his shadows, he discarded the information as pointless - scouts perhaps, no more. Despite her rather cool dismissal of their questions, Ozma had requested to go to the Fort alongside Olivya and Sherri, much to the surprise of all in the room. Mreuva remained by Denam as an adviser, as he chose not to take part in combat, but the commander would admit the Abuna's rather forceful support of Sherri's request was one of the reasons why he had finally relented and assigned a small detachment to the Fortress. It had not his main force, nor was it costly, but his most precious commodity was time as he prepared for a larger assault. With the knowledge that the Princess was in Barnicia, he had sent word to withdraw his forces from their positions in the larger cities, primarily Coritanae, as the troops there had only remained to keep the calm, and Almorica. If anything, Denam was relieved the detachment had arrived back earlier than scheduled.

At Denam's lack of response, he heard a small rustle of clothes from across the table. He glanced up, the bangs in front of his eyes slightly interfered with his line of sight, and saw the Sibyl uncomfortably fiddle with her clothes and shift about; her reaction somewhat worried him. Denam did not understand why he made the woman so nervous, as his manner was not cold, nor was it harsh. After a moment he shrugged the thought off and accepted the young woman's distress; perhaps his distant, quiet manner disconcerted some. He would do well to remember that his troops were not Catiua or Vyce; not all could read him from a few expressions or quiet sounds of acquiescence or annoyance. "I see. . ." Denam looked back down to his parchments, unable to bear the look of heartbreak that spread across the young woman's features. He imagined it looked much like Catiua's when Vyce and he had solemnly told her what the two young men had found when they first stepped from their hiding place after the attack on Golyat: a mixture of shock, horror, sadness, and utter desperation that spoke a silent "_Why?" _

"Do you think. . .?" Olivya was unable to finish her question, as her voice audibly shook. Denam did his best to hide a bout of annoyance and put his large quill into the inkwell and pushed the parchments aside. The work orders and reports were urgent and he could not just toss it aside whenever he chose to, but 'twas obvious he would get none of it done so long as the Sibyl remained troubled on the other end of the table. It was not that he did not wish to help Olivya, quite the opposite, but he had no words of comfort for her, no way to tell her "all would be well" and hug her to make her problems go away. As Denam glanced over the woman, he saw unshed tears in her eyes; she desperately tried to hide them, but the bright midday sunlight that shone through the large nearby window emphasized the sheen on her eyes and the distress on her features.

"If Cerya yet lives, she would not return to a Fortress long burned to the ground. She would go somewhere where none would expect to find her." Denam spoke as optimistically as he could. The words served their purpose, to some extent, as Olivya fell into silence and mused. Denam could almost see the wheels of her mind work, as she sought, even begged for, justification that her sister could still be alive, somewhere. She was so fragile; war was not for proper young women like her. She wanted to help others, not harm them. She did not deserve this pain. Denam relished the look of hope on her face and continued; he hated to speak the sweet lies, but could not stop himself at his friend's despair. "When the war ends, she will come out of hiding. Leave her be for now."

"Denam!" Both Sibyl and commander looked towards the now-open doorway in surprise at the interruption. As if by magic, Olivya's sad look disappeared and was replaced by calm serenity. Denam raised an eyebrow; it seemed the girl was better at hiding her emotions than he thought. She was a healer, after all, she had to maintain professional distance and hide her worries. Denam made note of that particular fact at the back of his mind as he stared at the intruder, Canopus, who walked with a casual confidence into the room. Had it been anyone else, save perhaps Vyce, the guards would not have allowed him to enter without an announcement. The red-headed winged walked past Olivya, though he did nod his head in acknowledgment of her presence he did little else to greet her, and continued to Denam's side. The Winged stood in the light that shined through the window onto the table in a purposeful blatant attempt to disrupt Denam's work - little did the Xenobian know that Olivya had already done that effectively enough. The commander sighed and leaned back in his large chair; it seemed the wheel wished for him to remain up all evening. He looked up at the Winged from his slumped position with a flat look and did not bother to hide his annoyance as he clasped his hands together.

"Is there a problem?" Close as the Bakram and Xenobian were, in his current state, Denam's mood was far too foul to greet his friend - no, brother - properly. Canopus barely seemed to notice, or perhaps he understood Denam's stress and simply chose to ignore his snippy tone. Denam appreciated his tolerance and, more, his acceptance.

"Yes." The Winged sounded hesitant before he glanced down the table to Olivya, who watched the scene with a secretive interest. The commander could tell she did her best to feign apathy, but from her alertness he could tell she sought to glean some bit of information about the situation. Denam shook his head in amusement; all women were similar in that regard, it seemed. Canopus seemed to notice Olivya's not-so-hidden attempt to eavesdrop and coughed rather uncomfortably. "Ah, Sibyl, Denam and I have important matters to discuss." His words were the most respectful one would hear from the often-crass Winged and even Olivya raised an eyebrow at them. She had a look of distaste, as if she wished to remain, but she was raised well enough to not act on her whims and instead nodded.

"Of course. Thank you for your time, Denam." Before Denam could rise to assist her from her chair and escort her to the exit, Olivya pushed herself up and with a small smile and left. He was relieved to see she seemed to have calmed, even if it was only a mask. if Denam knew the young woman as well as he believed, he knew she would go see her sister; Sherri would know how to deal with her better than Denam. He felt bad, as if he passed Olivya off to her elder like a burden. It was harsh, even cold of him.

Canopus waited until the door was securely closed behind Olivya before he continued. "Some forces that patrol our northern border have returned today." _With no report or orders to do so?_ Denam felt disconcerted at the thought and at how his Winged companion dealt with the issue. Canopus continued as he noticed Denam's confusion. "'twould be best if you spoke to them yourself." The commander felt his worry deepen yet more; if Canopus was so secretive on the matter, either the patrol had learned something confidential - and likely dangerous - or something entirely unpleasant had occurred beyond a simple skirmish or two with the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom's border patrols.

In response, Denam pushed himself from his chair and stood. He quickly organized his parchments into a few small piles and placed them into a small pack he wore on his shoulder specifically made for them. He could not simply just leave them strewn about, so Denam carried them around with him until he finished, then he burned some, and kept other, more imperative pieces, for later use under heavy guard. He did not bother to move the inkwell or his glass of water, the servants dealt with those, and nodded to his companion who briskly led him from the room with a subtle impatience. As Denam exited, his guards stood on alert; before they could follow, as was their responsibility, Denam motioned them away to go about their own business. A dangerous move, perhaps, but Canopus and he were more than strong enough to defend against any possible threats that could infiltrate Phidoch. To walk about unguarded in his own castle was not nearly as foolish as his short excursion to Rhime had been.

The duo's pace was too rapid for Denam to acknowledge the many respectful words of greeting from various soldiers, servants, and even citizens. Denam felt his hackles rise yet more as the normally laid-back Canopus led him at a pace that continually increased; he not be in such a rush unless something terrible had happened. They passed through the now-familiar halls of the Swan, but as they reached the expansive great hall, Denam found himself surprised at the silence that greeted him as he walked through. It was not that the hall was uninhabited, but all conversation stopped as he and Canopus entered. Canopus noticed the oddness, no - subtle hostility, and looked pointedly at Denam, who only shook his head in confusion. As he passed, he heard whispers but could not make out their words. Gasps or sounds of anger often followed. In a few of the soldiers, New Walister Alliance if Denam's guess was correct, was outright anger. Vyce would have no hand in this; despite previous disagreements they both accepted the need for a united future even if they often did not particularly get along as people. Denam did not like the manner in which these soldiers looked at him, but he had to assume the distaste was limited, perhaps the result of whatever trouble Canopus led him to. The alternative worried him too much to think on. The rest of their short journey, apparently to the infirmary - _could Canopus not have just said that in the first place?_ The winged seemed to enjoy making matters difficult - was normal. There were no awkward silences, glares, or whispers as Denam passed; an odd contradiction, one that made the events in the Great Hall even stranger. It seemed primarily former-New Walister Alliance members were unhappy as the few Resistance members they passed wore pleasant smiles and welcomed him warmly. Denam was not optimistic enough to believe 'twas only Vyce's troops who disagreed with him and he only prayed that whatever it was, rumors perhaps, had not spread far.

The bright sunlight of Valeria's dry months filled Phidoch's halls with a heart that permeated even the stones themselves. With the open windows in the halls Denam felt a light sweat form under his longer hair; though casually dressed, his clothes were still thick enough that the heat stayed within him. It did not help that Denam had been raised by the sea, where it was cool, windy, and often wet and foggy. The warmest days in Golyat were still much cooler than the hottest as those in central Valeria. Canopus did not seem bothered by the heat, but he also lacked a shirt. Denam could not abide by such informality himself, but if it suited Canopus to walk about exposed, he had no complaints so long as no one else was bothered. As the duo approached the entrance to the infirmary, the Winged stopped and held a hand up. Denam slowed from behind the Xenobian, but Canopus motioned for him to move closer, as if he did not wish to speak loudly. The Winged leaned his head in closer and his voice was low.

"There are. . .rumors."

It was just as Balxehon warned when Denam had refused to comply. The commander's first reaction was worry, but his emotions quickly faded away for the more prominent anger and frustration. His second reaction was yet more anger that his friends had not sought to alert him of events of such import. _Calm, Denam_. Though he tried to convince himself, the words did little to stop the panic that coursed through his body. He forced his jaw unclenched in attempt to regain some control. He was irrational; certainly Balxephon would not have moved so quickly, it had been little more than a few weeks since their discussion in Rhime. Denam did not know the rumors had anything to with the Lodissian at all, to assume to would be brash. As Denam's rationality returned, his worry faded slowly. Yes, he made a volcano from a gremlin nest; it was unlike him to jump to such conclusions. Denam breathed out and hoped that he was right and did not futilely attempt to convince himself of falsehoods. "Elaborate."

"_We" _Denam assumed he meant their friends and companions, as well as those who had served them longest - Canopus did only spoke of 'we's when he spoke of those close. "do not believe them. You've been busy of late and are intelligent enough to not listen about to gossip - that's what your whisperers are for- but the shadows we know are either not catching those who speak the rumors or they themselves are the ones who spread the fabrications." the Xenobian motioned for the infirmary without another word and pushed open the door. Denam followed him quietly, frown etched on his features as he mused on the implication of the Winged's words. He had always told Catiua that if she continued that frown of distaste she always wore, she would get wrinkles early, but it seemed the frown was the only expression Denam wore of late. "You'd best see for yourself."

In contrast to the silent warmth of the hallway, the infirmary was hot and loud and Denam would most accurately describe it as in a panic. As the Resistance had not been part of a large-scale assault in more than two scales since he took Phidoch - he had focused more on minor issues, such as Brigantys, the Order, and the location of Mreuva - the infirmary had been mostly empty of all but those who had the worst wounds. Denam glanced around to get a better view of the situation as he stood near the door with Canopus; the small patrol, usually only a score or so, was reduced to less than a third its size, and all of those who survived could barely walk due to various wounds. In one more than one case he saw legs broken and limbs mangled, one had both of his arms dismembered, and yet another looked like his face had been burnt by a powerful fire spell, as the flesh melted away and his left ear was gone completely. The smell that filled the air was of various forms of decay and, if he recognized the foul stench well enough, many of the men had infections in their deep wounds. The Clerics rushed about in desperate attempt to prevent permanent damage from those who could yet be saved. Given the state of the small patrol, they had all survived for a day or so in order to return to Phidoch; the few that had survived were likely in the best condition of all those who had been attacked, and a few - as far as the commander could tell - would live with only minor scars once the healers finished. Others would be unable to continue normal lives, with their limbs gone. In one or two cases, Denam was sure the Great Father would call them to his side by the next morn; it amazed him they had been able to return to Phidoch at all. Denam was jolted from his reverie as Canopus tapped him on the arm in order to get his attention. Denam blinked and followed the Winged to a small corner behind a curtain.

In the enclosed side area was a brunette man, probably the best condition of all of the returned patrol, who sat on the bed in an upright position under a single white sheet. Both of his arms were in thick braces and his chest was covered in a thick, clean wrap. He seemed alert and did not suffer as the others did. As Denam approached, the wounded patrol's eyes went wide, first in confusion then in awe at the recognition of who his visitor was: his commander, the Hero of Golyat himself. Denam would never get used to such reactions, but he did his best to smile lightly, if only to put on a front. From behind the two newly arrived guests, Denam flinched at the sound of a loud scream that echoed through the infirmary and then the hushed voices of Clerics as they worked. This was their warzone not his, the commander's word had no say here. He pushed the sounds away and focused his attention on the man. Canopus leaned against the wall nearby; he feigned boredom, but Denam could tell it was simply an act to hide his worry. "What happened?"

The man bit his lip in nervousness and remained silent. He looked away from Denam. The commander glanced over at Canopus who shrugged; Denam could not identify the meaning of the Xenobian's motion, but he assumed it implied Canopus would leave this to him. Denam locked his firmest gaze on the man's face and after a moment he could see him squirm. It was only a moment before, to Denam's pleasure, the former-patrol finally relented and spoke, head tiled downward. The wounded man examined the white sheet in feigned interest as if he could not face his commander. "Beg Pardons, Sir. . .but. . .as you see, our patrol was almost wiped out. We had only just passed into Bakram territory, about an hour outside the border, and we rested in a small clearing." The man gulped and Denam felt he knew what came next. When he nodded for his soldier to continue, to his surprise the man finally met Denam's gaze, a haunted, disturbed look passed across the patrol's features. "It was not the Bakram who assaulted us, Sir. Nor was it Lodis. We were butchered by our own."

Denam held back his gasp, but did withdraw slightly in shock. He glanced over at Canopus, who had his brows creased together as if in anger and lips pressed in a flat line. _Traitors?_ Perhaps plants by the Bakram or Lodis, Denam mused; the worst option - and likely most realistic - was that perhaps the perpetrators were those incited to revolt. "Why did they do this?" the commander demanded harshly. The man's lips were pressed together similarly to Canopus' and his nervousness returned; his eyes darted about in worry and, if his arms worked, Denam did not doubt his hands would have wrung together in nervousness. The commander tried to coax words from the wounded former-patrol and relaxed his tone. "Do not fear retribution for the truth, I would hear all you say, even if unpleasant."

"The men are. . .dissatisfied." He spoke little above a whisper and as if it physically pained him to admit. The patrol looked back down away from his commander, as if ashamed. Denam nodded, glad to finally hear the truth of it; were he not injured, the commander would have clapped him on the black in thanks.

"And they would not speak to me about it?" Denam pressed gently. When Denam had been captain of his newly-formed order when under Ronwey, he had done his best to hear the words and opinions of all of his followers. Many had been angry, distressed, frustrated, and full on enraged at Denam's actions in Balmamusa - but Denam did not judge them for their actions, he understood their hesitation. No, he knew their hesitation better than they themselves did. He accepted their criticisms, their harsh words, and even their verbal assaults with as much calmness as he could, before he finally asked what they wanted to do about their troubles. The new captain had questioned if they had lost faith in his judgment, or was it simply the methods of the Resistance they disagreed with – he received answers of both from almost all of his soldiers. That day, Denam lost more than a third of his Order; most went to the New Walister Alliance, formed by the popular, and innocent, Vyce alongside others who were horrified by Balmamusa and Ronwey's methods. Ronwey had been enraged at Denam's actions of letting the men wander about and speak of Balmamusa, but the rumors had started even without Denam's soldiers. To try and prevent word from spreading had been pointless. Rumors would have leaked with or without Denam's former soldiers; what he last wished for was for those who did not support the Walister Resistance to be required to fight for them against their will. The loyal were the allies he sought, not those forced to fight at the end of a sword held by their own clan. The Duke never understood Denam's reasons, nor had Leonar; perhaps he had been irrational and foolish, perhaps it had hurt their plans, but Denam respected his troops too much to block out what words he did not wish to hear. He would always listen when he could, but as his forces grew, he had less time for each Walister man and woman. He had to rely on others to relay information to him; Denam had become more distant. He was less the young Hero beloved by the commons and more the distant Commander to be respected, not liked or seen as a 'friend.' It was a secluded existence, but one the young Bakram had come to accept as necessary.

"Sir, I know a man of your position does not have time for the commons, but word has spread as fire would in straw for more than a week." The man seemed more confident as he realized Denam had no intention of getting angry at him. Was Denam truly seen as so firm and easy to enrage? Perhaps it was simply a stigma that came from his severity and calm manner. The broken patrol's voice was firmer. "The whispers grow more frequent and more elaborate. They have caused a rough divide in your troops."

"What do they speak of?" Denam pushed. The words came out more quietly than he intended. His wariness must have been apparent on his face, as the patrol seemed to once again hesitate. Denam understood; it was difficult to speak badly of one's commander, let alone to their face. Denam remembered how he had been horrified when Leonar had first spoken up against Ronwey in Rhime, but, when pushed, Denam had finally relented and voiced his own similar worries. It had been a relief of sorts, as he had not expected Leonar, loyal ally to the Duke, to share Denam's hesitation and fears. Yes, Denam understood and empathized with this man. He wished he could tell him all would be well, but such words of support did not fall easily from his lips. Denam had always been one for quiet reinforcement, not vocal and blunt. No, Vyce was better at that; 'twas why he was such a good leader.

"There are quite a few tales. I don't know them all, for I paid little to heed to such stories, as does any respectable Walister. For many of the rumors it is easy enough to discern truth from lies and even the weariest would be hard-pressed to believe them. Sir, one speaks of you are blood relative to Regent Brantyn Morne." Denam held back his shock through only the tightest self control. Yes, 'twas Lodis who spread these, for only they, through Prancet, and the Phoraenas knew of who he was - other than Brantyn himself, of course. There was no doubt in his mind that Balxephon had not gone back on his word; _curse him and curse the Dark Knights Loslorien! _"Even madder is the rumor that you were planted by Lodis in the Resistance." Denam could not believe anyone heeded that. Not even Balxephon was fool enough to try to pose him as a Lodissian tool; it was likely spread from some other dissenter who disapproved of Denam's rise. Denam said nothing to the latter rumor beyond an amused grunt that served to hold back his laughter, even Canopus smiled and shook his head at its ridiculousness, and allowed the man to continue. "Most share your amusement about that one, Sir, however the only reason they feel it has validity is because it ties in with some of the more worrisome rumors."

_Worrisome. _As if the truth to the first was not bad enough! Denam often pondered what his people would feel if they learned he was not who they believed. Would the Walister trust him, if they learned he was Bakram, Denam pondered. More importantly, he worried that they would feel betrayed and lied to and they would turn away from him in droves. Some would accept him; it was Denam's actions that brought him this far, not his blood. Others would loathe him yet more, for he was, after all, of the blood that they sought to be free of; the Walister Resistance fought for a country that was not ruled by Bakram hands, yet it was a Bakram who led and controlled them. Many would question if it was true freedom if they did not earn it for themselves and, in that, Denam did not wish for them to learn the truth. It was a necessary deception, one he hated but accepted. "What makes some of the rumors more valid than others?" The commander inquired. Certainly they had to have some evidence before the army would act as it had, as most adult were not irrational enough to leave simply because they heard something they misliked. What worried him more was the number of troops that felt as those who had attacked the patrol did and how many more would betray him if word spread further. Balxephon's poison quickly seeped through the Resistance, but the commander was unable to judge how deeply. The Dark Knight had been right; Denam had been foolishly optimistic to think that words would have no effect. The people chose to believe whatever appealed to them, whether or not there was any truth to it.

"A man, he claimed he was one of your shadows, spoke up one night in the center of the supper hall. I do not believe any of your captains were present, Sir, but many of us remember the event vividly. He spoke with great detail of how 'Sir Denam' planned to betray us all. All thought he lied and many even laughed openly or mocked him - then he took out the parchment." Denam's expression went dark. They must have been forged writings or his orders, stolen away from true shadows. He did not wish to believe any of his shadows would betray him such. "The 'shadow' read them out loud and allowed any who doubted to read them as well. They spoke of orders, such as how the Galgastani dissenters in Brigantys and Coritanae who disagreed with Resistance occupation would be silenced swiftly and silently, by force if necessary, and puppets who supported you were put in place to replace them. This touched the Galgastani deeply, for the 'shadow' spoke only what they whispered amongst themselves. Many believe that you would not have held Coritanae unless by such force." Denam released a low hiss that he could no longer hold back. He had given no such orders! Of course, the 'shadow' could have simply forged the missives and none would know otherwise. Denam's handwriting was not openly available to see, so the "orders" did not even have to match. In truth, Denam's orders had been much simpler than that, he simply wished to stop the conflicts and uprisings in Coritanae, but he left the political situation for the Galgastani to sort out for themselves. The patrol continued. "This was in conflict with one of his later missives, which claimed you would divvy small portions of Almorican land to Galgastan as reparation for the war. That was when many of us true Walister knew he lied."

"If 'twas so obvious to many, why was this man believed in the first place?" Canopus mused from his place against the wall. The look on his face was almost as troubled as the one Denam knew he wore. The Winged had spoken Denam's own words, so the commander simply nodded; he too, wished for an explanation.

"He came back the next night. Dame Ozma was in the room." Denam did not like the way the tale turned and the wounded man had not even started yet; Ozma had been a subject of angry debate even amongst his best friends. Though she had proven loyal, no matter what Denam argued only he and Hobyrim trusted her. Denam had seen her loyalty and emotion and he knew the Lodissian was true to Hobyrim. If that was not enough for his friends, the woman shared her former fiancé's loathing for Balxephon, one Denam had very quickly started to empathize with. Ozma could be trusted, in that the commander did not doubt. "The Shadow spoke with no regard to her presence. Unlike before, where he only brought parchments, he also spoke of plans. Most of us have been in your assaults, both open and secretive, Sir. We do not discuss them. This man spoke of every attack, stealth, open and unknown, small and large-scale, that you've ordered. It was evidence enough to those who doubted you that the shadow spoke the truth, for he knew only what a shadow could know."

"And Dame Ozma was the last straw?" Denam mused. He could envision the situation, there was no doubt the woman had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The "shadow" would have used her to his advantage. The subject had quickly veered away from its original goal, that was, to learn of what the rumors spoke of to the more important: how could he possibly counter them?

"I believe she tried to slip away when she realized what occurred, possibly to alert you, but she was called out before she could leave. The shadow spoke what many of us believe:" Denam noticed the man included himself and revealed that he, too, was not fond of the Lodissian woman. Denam did not agree with him, but it was not his place to judge the thoughts or beliefs of this man who spoke so freely when any other leader might well kill for it. The Resistance commander was not one to persecute for words alone. "that she is not to be trusted, she was your contact with the Dark Knights, and that we house the enemy within our ranks. As mentioned earlier, he spoke of how she mediated alliances – and how missives had been sent to and from Barnicia, the very place we are soon to attack!" So Balxephon knew of those plans as well; Denam began to worry about just how many whisperers the Dark Knight had within his ranks - certainly more than he was comfortable with. "The 'shadow' continued on and on, I admit I don't remember much of it. To be quiet honest, these rumors are not new; many have been spread for scales, some since the Duke was killed, and others since Coritanae was taken, but they've only recently resurfaced."

The man hesitated again. Denam knew that particular awkward silence; some of the rumors rang true with the man. "Speak your mind. I do not know if I can dispel your fears, but I would know what tests your loyalty." The man looked relieved that Denam understood his wordless plea. Still, he breathed deeply in restlessness, an act that caused him to lose his control and cough painfully, with obvious thick mucous in his lungs. Denam felt a momentary bout of shame; this man had just returned and was still injured yet all Denam had done was demand answers. Denam pushed the already-exhausted man beyond his limits. He cursed his short-sightedness; for all he scolded Catiua that she needed to view the world beyond her nose, Denam did much the same, and almost as often as his sister. The man's fit finally slowed and he caught his breath. As Denam looked him over, he saw his first examination of the man's health had been wrong; it was not only his arms that were broken, but his ribs appeared to be as well. Still, the man smiled and hid his pain and did he best to loyally serve. A true Walister; Denam would promote this one for his service.

"I do not speak for your Galgastani troops or any Bakram who serve you, but the Walister worry, sir. With the Princess' arrival, and your well-known interest in her, we fear that the past will be repeated. The Resistance will swear its cause to the Bakram and they will Lord over us yet again – if not Lodis!"

Denam nodded. He knew where the man went with that, for 'twas the main source of argument between he and Vyce. The two could not go a day in each other's presence without it being brought up. "You worry - and I hope not rightfully so. As a man, and as a commander, I do not wish to see any of our clans treated as lesser to another. I do not allow clan to determine my policy, with the singular exception of Lodis. I want Lodis and their influence removed from these isles and I will do what I must to reach this goal. We are united in the Resistance now, we have a voice. The Walister _will _be heard, even if I must lead them against the oppressors after this war ends." A bold claim; Denam hoped he could live up to his words. Denam would easily admit it was Vyce's first passion to fight for the Walister; his own fight had been for peace between people and then, later Valeria.

The man looked up to Denam, his eyes wide. From the side, Denam heard Canopus chuckle and only belatedly did Denam realize the reason; the bedridden man looked at him as if he was an icon, his hero and savior, the bright beacon of hope long searched for. How could he tell the man he was no different from any other soldier? Luck and some skill had gotten him to where he was, but Denam shared the same fears and desires as every other man in the Resistance. He was not even a particularly effective leader; it was through the teamwork of his friends and companions that he had gotten as far as he did. He supposed his skill as a tactician helped. "Thank you, Commander. You bring fire to our Walister souls. I hope to stand on the field of battle when we take Heim, together!" Denam smiled lightly in acknowledgment and nodded.

"No, thank you. You've given me invaluable information. Rest now, may the Great Father protect you." Denam snapped his mouth shut as he realized what he'd done. Canopus raised an eyebrow as well, but said nothing. Canipus knew of Denam's upbringing, but not his heritage, that his father had been an Abuna, but not all Walister were as religious as the Bakram. He might well have offended the patrol. Denam quickly turned away in both embarrassment and worry as he quickly made his way past the beds and Clerics. The infirmary was just as busy as it had been when he first entered, as the men required constant monitoring. Denam pushed the door open with no acknowledgement towards the Clerics and called Canopus close as the door closed behind them both. The Winged shrugged as Denam spoke.

"Canopus, have you nothing to say about this?" The Bakram kept his voice quiet. None were in the hall, but it was best to exercise caution. Denam stood next to an open window and took deep breaths of the fresh, dry air, a welcome relief from the thick, rancid smell that had permeated through him in the infirmary. The smell of dirt and trees was far more pleasant than the smell of flesh and disease. Canopus' tone was as offhand as normal, but his eyebrows were drawn together in worry.

"The damage is done. To try and speak out against the lies would only acknowledge that you are threatened by them. In that you condemn yourself to guilt; all we can do for now is ignore them." Denam agreed with a nod and glanced out the window to the sun's position in the sky. It was still only a few hours past midday, and from the amount of people who moved to and fro in the courtyard, Denam could see that trade had not been particularly affected by whatever this fake 'shadow' had done.

"We must find out who these 'shadows' are that speak against me and who their contacts are." Denam did not like the implications of the shadow's knowledge. It was not that he didn't know who sent him - it was more certainly Balxephon, who had given reality to his threats - more that he worried who whispered to the Lodissians. It had to be someone of rank, who knew all of Denam's movements. Or perhaps multiple people of rank. Denam could not bring himself to distrust any of his closest allies; but those who served under them directly could well serve Lodis or the Bakram.

"Not ours, most like. Plants. But they serve their purpose well enough." The Bakram agreed with his Xenobian friend. The true whisperers would not reveal their identity by speaking so openly. These "shadows" were likely new recruits, paid a very large sum. He was confident in that conclusion; Denam did not alert any one of his shadows to all of his plans as such. More, he assigned "jobs" to his shadows via their area of expertise, no one shadow would know what all of the others did at any given time for primarily this reason. The only person in his army that knew of all of his plans was him - and Balxephon of the Dark Knights, apparently, he mused sardonically.

"Can we counter them with our own 'plants'?" Denam looked pointedly at the Xenobian.

"I'll see what I can do, but the spread of 'good' information will not oust the 'bad' - no matter how true the good is and how false the bad." The Winged looked out the window, as if to avoid looking at Denam. "You should probably speak to the Lodissian. She was there." Denam noted that even Canopus seemed to dislike the woman, as he refused to speak her name. Well, he was not particularly fond of Vyce either, so Denam simply shrugged it off. Canopus was surprisingly picky about his friends and allies; the Winged was brash and often outright cold to those he disliked, even in the midst of battle. Denam had calmed him some, but he would still throw out searing remarks in the general direction of Ozma and Vyce whenever they drew close enough to him. After so long together, Denam, like Gildas and Mirdyn, simply shrugged it off with a chuckle. That was Canopus and he would have it no other way.

"That's where I intend to go next. Thank you for alerting me to this." The Winged nodded and clapped Denam on the back in reassurance. He understood his friend's silent dismissal and walked down the hall on his own business - whatever business a Xenobian Winged had to attention to. before the other man could take more than a few steps, Denam jolted in realization and called out: "Canopus, I hate to ask yet another favor of you, but would you please return these to my private quarters?" Denam lifted his bag that held his parchments off his shoulder and walked them over to the Xenobian, who had stopped to nod and took them carefully from the commander's hands. As Canopus slowly fell out of his line of sight, Denam allowed himself to momentarily wallow in internal self-pity as he stood alone in the hall. He had not eaten lunch, nor did it look like he would be able to, and his suppertime would be filled with only the parchments he had earlier put away when he spoke with Olivya. Perhaps this was why the Duke always looked so weary; Denam had not gotten a full night of sleep in a week. Being commander of a powerful military force was nothing like the stories he had been told when he was young. There was little glory; it was exhausting and it tore him apart internally.

Denam sighed and pushed himself from the wall. There was no point to those thoughts, which were little more than childish whining; he was one of the few who had the power to truly make a difference. He had to be the one who stood when no others could, for that was what he had promised his father. There was no time to be selfish, no matter how much he wanted a warm bath and a nap, personal time had to wait for later. The Bakram commander walked through the halls and focused on his steps in effort to keep his mind off of the rumors and how he would deal with them. He allowed himself to simply enjoy the clean air and calm atmosphere of the peaceful Phidoch. As Denam walked through the stone hallways, he purposely avoided the Great Hall where that earlier event had put him on edge and stayed in the private quarters. Ozma's quarters were close enough to the infirmary's wing that he need not muse for long. The woman chose some at the far end of the captain's hall, away from everyone, including Hobyrim. Denam silently applauded her for that, for he did not need angry soldiers stomping about in the halls simply because a Lodissian was a room away from them. To Denam' amusement, Ozma's door held a small pale purple flower in the area where the torch was usually held. He chuckled and wondered if she had an admirer, or if the Lodissian simply had some femininity to her despite her rough exterior; Denam suspected it was the latter. He would have to tell Hobyrim she liked purple later on.

As Ozma had only recently returned alongside Sherri and Olivya from their trip to Boed, Denam was unsure as to the woman's location. She could be in her chambers, with Hobyrim, or possibly even in the supper hall. The best place to look was the most obvious, and the young man knocked on her door strongly; he listened closely for a moment, but heard no sound from within. Denam glanced about the hallway as he waited for Ozma to answer. Other than the flower, the door was no different from any other in the hall, its thick wood meant more for defense than beauty, though unlike many others rooms, she had a window across from her rather than another chamber. He could hear the loud song of three birds in the large tree in the courtyard as he waited, but there was little else of interest. Impatient, Denam knocked again and rebalanced his weight over to his left leg. The commander waited for another few minutes and ran a hand through his hair in boredom before he finally decided the Lodissian was not there. He sighed; there were only three places she could be: The supper hall, Hobyrim's room, or the practice fields - alongside Hobyrim. That woman had only two things on her mind at all times, one of them started with "H" and the other was her country, so Denam knew he likely should have started with Hobyrim's chambers. She would have gone there as soon as she arrived and washed herself from her journey.

Now that he was in the private chamber's hallway it was not a long walk to Hobyrim's room, no more than a minute. Denam had the castle layout and the rooms and their occupants memorized. It had been one of the first things he had learned as soon as he took Phidoch and declared it their new base of operations. He stood quietly outside the door to the male Lodissian's chambers for a moment; he did not know if he wished to speak of his_ issues _with Balxephon with the two Lodissians, but if anyone could predict the Dark Knight's actions it would likely be them. He had no idea as to what he could say on the subject; Denam could admit that while he and Hobyrim had a deep respect for one another, they were not close enough in age to be truly friendly with one another and a topic of such importance as Balxephon was not proper to bring up in casual conversation. It was a respect, fondness, perhaps, much like Hobyrim viewed Denam as a brother rather than a friend. Denam could start with what Balxephon requested - "the twelfth of Windscale" - or perhaps he should question Ozma immediately, as she seemed to prefer a bold approach that did not toy with words. The Bakram knocked before he could second guess himself and breathed deeply. He had enough stress, the last thing he needed was the two Lodissians giving him yet more, even if it helped him in the long run; he was going to go grey long before his time. To Denam's pleasure, or dread, he heard a quiet rustle and soft speech from within the door. It was only a moment later before the door swung open and a passive Ozma, dressed down in an informal green dress, hair unstyled and slightly messy, as if she had rushed to see Hobyrim as soon as she arrived from Boed, opened the door with a passive, if somewhat annoyed, expression her features. She blinked in surprise as she saw Denam.

". . .Commander, you look, ah. . .What are you doing here?" Ozma stumbled about her words, her foreign accent only emphasized her blunders and Denam resisted the urge to smile. He knew what she had been about to say: he looked horrible. She was certainly not the first to have told him that in the last few days; the stress wore at him and he knew he likely had dark circles under his eyes and weariness in his demeanor, not to mention he often snapped and was easily annoyed. He was not sure if he should laugh at how open she was about it, or be shocked at her lack of tact. For one who was supposed to be a noblewoman, she certainly lacked the grace for it.

"Ozma, who is it?" Hobyrim, who moved more cautiously than his female companion, finally appeared in the guest chambers, hands on the wall to guide him. He was cleanly shaved, his wet hair tied back in a tail at his neck, and wore new robes. It seemed as if Ozma had gotten to him as soon as she arrived; he looked quite a bit more formal than when Denam had first met him on the streets of Rhime. Denam was reminded of how Catiua assaulted him – and particularly Vyce – during any formal event when they were not up to her standards and their clothes and hair would be considered inappropriate. He silently pitied the poor Lodissian man; he knew how forceful such women could be.

"Hobyrim, Dame Ozma, I apologize for the interruption, but I need to speak to you; 'tis urgent." Denam kept his voice low, more out of respect because it was not his room and one he had never entered nonetheless, than caution and for fear of spies. If his memory served him properly, Gildas, Mirdyn, and Sara where the only ones with chambers nearby so there was no need to hide his intentions. Both of the two spoke at the same time in response, but their reactions were strikingly different.

"I know what this is about." Ozma declared, with a surprising softness to her voice, as if she did not view Denam as any different from she. The young man appreciated her easy welcome.  
>"Please, come in Commander." In turn, Hobyrim's response was much more formal and respectful; Denam knew how to respond to Hobyrim's proper welcome more than Ozma's informal one.<p>

"Many thanks for your hospitality" Denam responded on habit and both hosts stepped away from the door to allow the visitor entry. Ozma immediately turned and walked over to the central table in the guest room and poured three cups of tea for them as Denam removed his boots. The female spoke offhandedly as she did so.

"You are here about those who speak against you." Ozma did not bother to look in his direction, nor was it a question. Denam frowned a bit; if Ozma had known of his worries, he wondered why she not approached him immediately after the event - perhaps 'twas because she was just as uncomfortable around him as he was her. Despite their claim of peace, two simply did not know how to respond to one another. When Ozma and Denam were alone there was a thick tenseness in the air that was not broken, even as the female would give her precise and detailed reports, until one or the other left the room, or a third presence came in and disrupted them. Yes, Denam understood her hesitation, but he did not quite accept it; information such as what she had was far too important to hold from him.

"That's one of the reasons, yes." Denam replied cautiously and watched as Hobyrim sat at the table. He did so with surprising finesse even without his sight, and Ozma grasped her love's hand as she handed him a teacup with a warm smile. Hobyrim could not see her smile, of course, and his features were confused as if he had no idea what Denam and Ozma spoke if. _How odd_. Ozma had not spoken to Hobyrim of the rumors, either. Denam approached the table as Ozma allocated a teacup for him at the other end from where Hobyrim sat. Denam remained as she placed her own across from Hobyrim's and moved to sit. Denam, in his desperate attempt to not only stick to tradition but to also warm the cool woman, quickly rushed over to her and pulled the chair out for her and pushed it under as she sat. After her initial shock, the Lodissian rewarded him with a surprised smile and nod of thanks. It seemed Denam's actions served their purpose, to some extent, and the tenseness fell away from the two. Ozma was the first to speak as Denam, too, returned to his chair and sat.

"Hobyrim, I can see you've no idea what we speak of." Denam took a sip of his tea, a rich mint that was pleasantly strong but not overwhelmingly so, and held back his surprise at her blunt words. He'd best keep Catiua away from this woman when he saved her, or the two would fight about how to appropriately act as a woman. The thought served to bring forth a light amusement in his dark mood, for Catiua was just as bad as the former Loslorien commander. "The other evening when I went to acquire supper for us, I encountered someone who claimed to be a 'shadow' who stirred up anger and dissent amongst the troops." Ozma glanced back to Denam, her tone professional and well practiced. "I'm sure you're aware, but he's no true shadow, likely sent here to do exactly what he has done - cause a rift between commander and army."

"You do not believe them?" Denam prodded curiously. Hobyrim's face was unreadable and he kept his thoughts to himself as Ozma and Denam spoke in order to get a more complete view of the situation.

"Certainly not. You should have heard their ridiculous claims; I'm amazed _any _would believe them." Denam did admit he was surprised. Ozma was the first person he thought would have latched on to negative rumors and weaknesses. He frowned, more at himself than her; for it he who claimed forgiveness, yet he was the one who had judged her harshly. He made a mental to note not to fall prey to his hypocrisy again and try to make it up to her in some way.

Ozma obviously awaited Denam's response, but the young Bakram did not know what to say. He was a bit nervous about admitting to anyone he had spoken to Balxephon, but none other would better understand his plight than these two. The duo obviously sensed his nervousness, as they both stared at him with varying degrees of curiosity and worry. Denam did not realize until a moment later that he continued to shift in his discomfort; he cursed his body for giving him away when he most needed to be calm. ". . .I've reason to believe it is Balxephon who slanders me." Denam finally whispered. That earned a response from the two, Ozma's gaze darkened and Hobyrim looked angry – possibly even furious.

"Explain." Hobyrim's normally soft voice was tinged with his anger. Even Ozma was surprised at his ferocity and she glanced between the two men with some confusion. Denam and Hobyrim had a mutual respect for each other than Ozma simply did not understand, he supposed.

"About two weeks ago I went into Rhime –alone -" Denam held a hand up to silence Ozma, who looked ready to lecture him on his foolishness. Denam _now _knew how mad he had been to do so and, as Balxephon had said, he would not repeat his mistake. Despite the dark situation, Denam was amused; if she looked ready to scold him, it meant she cared in that odd way of hers. Perhaps she and Catiua would get along after all. The Bakram was flattered; even if the two did not entirely get along she respected him enough to worry about his health. To his relief, Hobyrim did not seem to care either way, after all, he too had wandered about Rhime alone when Denam met him. "- to meet with a particular shadow of mine, the same one who told me Catiua's location. On my way out of the city I was ambushed by Balxephon's Templars. We had. . .a discussion." Yes, _discussion_, such vagueness suited his purposes well.

"I'm surprised." Ozma put her teacup down and frowned at Denam. "The man who claims to be a shadow spoke of a parley with Loslorien and I was absolutely sure that was one of the lies." Hobyrim remained silent, Denam could tell that he was displeased at Denam's lack of elaboration. That conversation with the Dark Knight had not been particularly pleasant for the young Bakram commander and he did not wish to muse on it. Balxephon's words continued to trouble him in his private time, when his moods were darkest; Denam would never act upon his doubts, but they tore him apart more thoroughly than the rumors ripped through his army.

"_Parley_?" Denam allowed himself a sardonic laugh at that. "Nay, 'twas only threats spoken. I chose not agree to his demands, and so I was told that I would soon be at the harshest end of the Valerian peoples' true nature."

"That sounds like him." Hobyrim declared. He had not touched his tea, unlike the other two at the table. He said no more than that in a silent push for Denam to reveal more information. Denam chose his words carefully; it was not that he did not want to tell them, he simply did not wish them to know the effects Balxephon's words had. Denam was still young and, as much as he did not like to admit it, was very susceptible to criticism, especially to words he so often spoke to himself.

"As you've both concluded, my reason for this visit is to determine if either of you know a way I might counter this - or what Balxephon's next tactic might be when he realizes his first has failed." Denam kept his voice strong and his tone confident, but internally he wondered just how deeply Balxephon's plants had spread their disease into his troops. Denam wondered at how many more showed such dissatisfaction or were relieved to hear their thoughts echoed back at them – neither boded well for the commander. The back of his mind told him that more leave or, worse, split the Walister forces again, much like Vyce did with the New Walister Alliance. The Galgastani could abandon him all together if the latter happened. Ravness and her small party were still politically fragile and the main reason they continued to hold uncontested power was because they allied with Denam and the Walister and called for peace that the people so desperately sought.

"Balxephon is a strategist. One of the best Lodis has to offer. His entire purpose in Loslorien is to manipulate battles and politics to his favor with as little bloodshed as possible." Ozma's voice held an odd mix of pride, in her people's skill more than Balxephon, and disgust. "You've lost this battle, but not the war - not yet." Her words were flat and cold, as if she told him to simply stop his denial of the truth. Balxephon had torn apart some of his army from the inside-out, but he had not destroyed them. Those who did not support their cause would leave, but for those, who fought for plunder and glory, it was no great loss. Or perhaps he simply thought too deeply on Ozma's words and they were only meant to force him to see reality.

"What did he ask for?" Hobyrim finally pushed the conversation in the last direction the Bakram wished it to go. Denam swallowed nervously; he supposed it was only appropriate to tell them, as what Balxephon demanded had not been particularly outrageous or even traitorous, but he still felt dirty the conversation occurred in the first place, like he should have done more to resist.

"He wished to make an arrangement that dealt with Catiua. She is my sister - I will not use her as a tool!" Denam's firm words held an internal echo of uncertainty as Balxephon's whispers played at the back of his mind. If he rescued her, Denam questioned if she take the throne out of responsibility, for he knew she would hold some hesitation. If she refused her position, Denam could easily see himself in a firm attempt to convince her otherwise, to show her how many lives would be saved. Yes, Denam sought to use her as a tool and he hated himself for it. Denam continued needlessly, more for himself than his companions. "She is not to be traded about like an object. I declined."

"Foolish, perhaps, to refuse him so openly." Hobyrim lightly scolded. That was certainly not what the young commander had expected from him. If he was not to refuse, what was he to do - _Deal_ with Balxephon? The very idea disgusted him, as it likely did Hobyrim. "As Ozma says, it is far too dangerous to allow him to act freely. He will tear your army apart if you do not act against him in some way. Look what happened to my family, if you seek more proof that he will not stop until he has won."

Denam looked down at the tea, his reflection little more than a dark blur on the top of the pale liquid, and stirred it about as if to distract himself; Ozma and Hobyrim knew nothing, they did not wish to speak it aloud, but neither could help him. They told him only what he already knew – he had to save Catiua before the situation spiraled even more out of his control. These two served no purpose but to worry him more. He was sure it wasn't their intention, but Denam felt his mood sour at their lack of knowledge. Denam tipped the teacup back into his mouth, the liquid contents had cooled to lukewarm, and swallowed with a gasp The Commander was frustrated and he knew that his mood spread wherever he went due to his emotional pain and stress. Perhaps he should go offer Vyce and he take a trip to the practice fields so the commander could hit something that actually reacted when attacked. It might serve to calm him in some form of cathartic release. Or perhaps he simply just wished to see Vyce squirm a bit; his friend could be obnoxious at times, especially because the rumors sounded exactly like what the Alliance had spread after the events of Balmamusa – Denamrefused to continue the thought. Vyce was no traitor, but as he tried to avoid the connection, it only pushed the comparison forward yet more. Vyce had been one of the primary sources of dissent in the Resistance because he had so openly disagreed with its policies. He was not a particularly good speaker, even if he did so more often than the quieter Denam_**, **_but the Walister was a man the commons could relate to and respect. Like Denam, he spoke the words the people wanted to hear and united them in both heart and mind. Denam did not wish to mistrust his allies, and Vyce would most certainly not work with Lodis, but the tactics used were similar, no doubt. Vyce had splinted Resistance troops, just as Balxephon did. The two had gotten over their disagreements about methods, to some extent, but even sometimes they lapsed into a hostile silence with one another from old rivalries and arguments long-forgotten by both.

"Before I forget, Hobyrim," Denam murmured quietly. The Bakram did not know why he brought it up, or even remembered the comment at all, but he assumed Balxephon had told him something important. Or he simply sought to confuse Denam more. "As I left, Balxephon told me to ask you about something - more mindgames perhaps - but I see no harm in it."

"Feel free. All I know is yours." Denam nodded wearily. He appreciated Hobyrim's openness, more than he could verbalize, but in his current mood had no way to express it. Instead, he simply continued in his impassive manner.

"What happened on the twelfth of Windscale?" Denam leaned back in the chair. He did not slump, but he allowed himself to relax as he changed the subject off of the darker matters at hand. In truth, he was quite curious about Balxephon's last words to him; he cared less what they meant and more what their purpose was.

"?" Ozma glanced curiously over at Denam and then back at Hobyrim, who was silent. The woman knew as little as Denam, it seemed. Hobyrim thought on Denam's words for a good two minutes, gaze blank and face straight ahead, before he cautiously replied.

"Twelfth. . .? I've no id-" As if he finally understood, Hobyrim stopped. It was sudden, as if he just ran into a tree because he paid no heed to his surroundings. "Wait - what did he say of that day?"

The Resistance commander shrugged before he realized his foolishness. Hobyrim could not see such actions from it. Ozma held back her smile as she noticed his mistake; Denam only glared at her. "He said nothing beyond 'question Hobyrim about the twelfth of Windscale.' It was odd for me as well, for he simply called it out as I left as if it was an afterthought."

"What does the twelfth have to do with anything?" Hobyrim definitely knew something, but was lost in thought. The anticipation wore at him, as each moment passed he became yet more curious. Ozma, too, tapped at the table in an annoyed fashion. Hobyrim ignored both for some time until Denam politely coughed in attempt to force the elder back to reality. "Oh. The twelfth was when his wife died." Denam raised an eyebrow, well aware that Hobyrim could not see his reaction. Denam knew of political marriages, but even though Ozma had been engaged to him, Balxephon seemed so distant, as if he was not suited for a wife. Balxephon might certainly be more. . .tolerable when not an opponent, but Denam doubted it. "I may be unable to see but, I can tell you're surprised by your intake of breath – you shouldn't be shocked by this. One of our blood does not reach his age without marriage, 'twould be political suicide. Ozma would be his second." Said woman nodded and turned her face away, as if ashamed. "She was a frail thing. Beautiful, or so I'm told - I was too young to make judgments either way. She was 16 when they wed, Balxephon a bit older. She died soon after, when. . ." The Swordmaster trailed off. He was not lose in thought this time, Denam could see that clearly, the Lodissian simply had no desire to continue. That Ozma did not know of this surprised Denam, as she looked just as interested at the revelation as he was.

"Hobyrim, out with it." Ozma placed her empty teacup down and tapped her fingers against the table more loudly than before. She glanced at Hobyrim with an almost girlish delight; it seemed these games were quite enjoyable for her, much like a puzzle. Denam had always been fond of puzzles, but when his life rested of the discovery of their solutions, he could not bring himself to muster the elder woman's enthusiasm.

". . ." To the young Bakram's surprise, even when pressured by Ozma, Hobyrim remained silent and looked as if he had no intention to continue. For the first time since their meeting started, Hobyrim cautiously fingered around for his teacup and lifted it to his lips with surprising efficiency, as if he had not spoken at all. He nodded in approval at the tea's taste before he took another sip with a laziness that even wore on the patient Resistance commander. Denam and Ozma shared another glance, both surprised and pleased at how easily it became to remain in each other's presence, for 'twas the longest they had gone without any discomfort. After some time, Hobyrim finally spoke, his voice exasperated, as if his words were only intended to soothe the annoyance of those at the table with him. ""Tis the only prominent event I remember that occurred on that day. Why he would bother to bring it up at all worries me, perhaps he plans to kill Ozma?" Denam was shocked at how easily he spoke of his former-fiancée's death, but said woman did not seem to mind; perhaps it was simply in Lodissian culture to be painfully blunt.

"He toys with us, then." Denam murmured. Hobyrim's proposal that he meant to kill Ozma seemed realistic, and the commander felt the Swordmaster was on road to unraveling their mystery. It was not until he mentioned fiancée that Denam came upon a realization. He was unsure if he was correct, but Denam believed Balxephon intended to marry him to Catiua. The pieces fit well together: their conversation had been about Catiua's behavior and how only Denam had some hold over her, Lodis sought the islands for their own, but they knew neither Catiua nor Denam would be acceptable tools separately because of their disagreeable nature and distaste for Lodis in general. The best option was to marry the two they wanted to control and then manipulate them both at once; it would be easy, then, for subtle threats would affect the entire isles, not just the major factions and it would give them direct control over Catiua, who was often somewhat thick when it came to politics.

Unaware of Denam's theory, Hobyrim continued their conversation. "Yes and no. There must be a reason he mentioned it; Balxephon does not say things like this for his amusement alone. He is a practical man, a politician, yes, but a grounded one." In the Bakram's mind, 'practical' and 'politician' did not belong in the same sentence. They often had their heads so high in the sky they could not see what was right in front of them. Before he could stop the thought, Denam considered if Ronwey was as such and immediately concluded he was. Even long after Ronwey was dead, Denam misliked such negative thoughts of his former Lord and patron, for he had started the revolution of the Walister, ignorant of the people and manipulative of Denam or no. Denam did not consider himself a politician, though he certainly had started to act as one. The more he saw of his new duty, he began to understand why their kind could not often see the world as others did; half of those in politics were mad – truly insane – and the other half sought to use those weaker in order to increase their own power. Mreuva and his uncle had fallen prey to the insanity, though at least the former had learned the error of his ways. If Denam believed he fell under one or the other, he would cautiously admit it was the latter, for he understood the use and the necessity for the support of the commons.

The room lapsed into silence and all three pretended to be lost in their varying thoughts, but Denam knew it truth it was more likely they were unsure as to what they could say. The Lodissians had proved some assistance, but overall the event felt as if it was unproductive and Denam would have gotten more done had he spent the time on his pile of parchments and had tossed the idea of Balxephon's slander aside entirely for the day.

"Sir. . ." Ozma finally murmured.

"Yes, Dame Ozma?" The tenseness between the two immediately returned, and they stared at each other, both unable to look away, but also unable to meet each other's eyes. Hobyrim, obviously still in thought about Balxephon's words, pushed himself from the table and asked to be excused, to which both Denam and Ozma replied in time, before they fell silent. Both listened as Hobyrim wandered into his private chamber to sit on the bed in desperate effort to pretend the other occupant was not in the room. They acted as if they were children and, had the situation not been so serious, he might have laughed at the foolishness. Ozma finally spoke, her voice low, as she stood and approached Denam.

"I know we've been of no help to you in this matter, however -" She did not approach him, instead Ozma walked past the chair Denam remained in and called back to him "A moment, if you will?" Denam turned towards her, confused, but nodded. Ozma returned the gesture before she rushed from the room. She did not bother with her shoes and, despite her long dress, she walked with a speed that surprised him. He assumed she went to her room for whatever reason a woman such as Ozma acted as she did. Denam shrugged and stood himself. He walked over to the teapot and brought it to his cup and poured some more mint tea; Denam frowned a bit internally, for it was the female host who usually poured tea for a guest. He supposed it was acceptable, given Ozma wasn't his host, but he still felt a bit rude to throw out tradition as such, especially because he did not have the chance to ask if he could drink more. Denam chuckled despite all of the stress he was under; his army could fall apart under him and all he could think about was proper teatime etiquette. Catiua would be pleased. The stress was most certainly getting to him; perhaps he was on that path of madness he so vehemently abhorred in others with power.

Ozma rushed back in no more than three minutes later. Denam put his teacup down as he glanced at the slightly disheveled woman who allowed the door to slam behind her. She slowed her pace and offered him a sad smile as she placed a few pages of parchment down on the table in front of him. Her words were quiet and she glanced nervously over to Hobyrim's room and back down at Denam. "These rightfully belong to you. I do not know if you want them, or if you would simply toss them in the fire. I do not suggest you read them until you're alone, lest you show weakness to others." Ozma stood beside him as he flipped over the first page of parchment and his eyes opened widely at what he saw. The first lines, in hasty but readable scrawl were: _'Prancet Morne: Confession overseen by Oz Moh Glacius on the date of the twenty-third of Shadowscale, Heim Castle, Valeria. Witness: Balxephon Von Rahms.'. _Had the young commander tea in his mouth and a glass in his hand, the glass would have shattered and he would have fallen into a fit of coughs from shock at the way he sharply withdrew a breath. The parchment fell from his hands and onto the table as his eyes widened. Ozma took a step back to give the Bakram man his space, but kept her voice low. "Loslorien requires all confessions recorded in writing. This remained in Balxephon's old room, or so I'm told; I found it where the rest of the looted equipment and items were. At first I thought nothing of its importance and brought it with me so that I could give it to you – but you're often busy and I've only just returned, so there was no chance to give it to you before. Now that you've brought up Balxephon, I see that it was no accident that he left the confession to be found by the Resistance. When you read it, you'll understand."

"Th-this is from father when you -?" Denam finally breathed out. The paper held his father's words after he was tortured, after the Lodissians had given him the drought that drove him to insanity and his eventual death. His breaths were shaky and he trembled, not quite sure if out of fear, anger, or sadness.

". . ." Ozma said nothing in response and, though he did not look to her, he knew she was unable to face him in her shame. He wondered if she truly felt disgust from what she'd done, or if she simply disliked the idea that she had to face the family of those she had wronged. Denam wished he could say he did not blame her, but all of the emotion seared back into him, grudges he thought he long abandoned, despair as, again and again, his father's death played in his mind, and most of all distaste for himself, who had been unable to save his father because he'd been so focused on the war. Denam could not bring any words to his lips, either in thanks or in anger, instead he pushed himself from the chair and gathered the invaluable parchments. Denam cared little about Ozma's ominous words, he would deal with that later. Even the earlier stress from the split in his army had faded. Ozma took his hand and escorted him to the door. Denam put his shoes on and attempted to calm himself with deep breaths, but the emotions did not fade. He could not will them away like anger, or calm himself like he did with annoyance. As he finished, Ozma finally spoke, still unable to look at him.

"I'll speak to Hobyrim, worry not. He knows something and I plan to find out what he hides. Go rest, Commander, we can all tell you've had a long day." The Resistance commander, who certainly felt little of the part at the moment, did his best to nod. He left the room without a word and stood, outside Hobyrim's door, unable to move for a full five minutes as he attempted to regain some semblance of control. He rubbed his face and clenched his fists and focused on his breaths. He cursed himself internally with what little rationality he had left for putting his father before the more important struggle with his troops, yet another part of him spoke of how it was that same disregard towards his family that had caused him to lose them all. As Denam slowly walked towards his room, he cursed his indecisive nature: if he did not focus on one or the other, family or war, nothing would get done, and yet he wanted the most from both.

In many ways, Denam Morne felt as if he was still a child.


	3. Interlude: Haze

_Prancet Morne  
>Confession overseen by: Oz Moh Glacius<br>Recorder: Ozma Moh Glacius  
>On the date of: Twenty-third of Shadowscale<br>Location: Heim Castle, Valeria  
>Witnesses – Sign that you have verified the accuracy of the confession:<br>Balxephon Von Rahms_

_Recorder's note: The serum used on the prisoner causes instability of the mind and often it becomes difficult to tell reality from fantasy. It also causes the recipient to fall into bouts of inane babbling with words and stories that are falsehoods or creations of the ill mind. This transcription is from the last questioning that occurred over the course of three days before we were able to acceptably judge the truth of matters.  
><em>

* * *

><p>[Interrogator]: <em>Prancet. . .Morne?. . .no, that's not right. . .<em>

[Witness]: _Leave it as that._

[Interrogator]: _Very well. When did you first arrive on the Valerian Isles, Prancet?_

[Prisoner]: _Fifteen years ago. I was on a mission to spread the word of the Great Father Philaha._

[Interrogator]: _You seemed to have taken your mission orders quite liberally. Does the Great Father demand you steal children, or was that something you did on your own time?_

[Witness]: _Stay on the subject, Oz._

[Interrogator]: _Ugh. Explain to us your first years. Not in detail, but how you acclimatized, your acquaintances, and how you came to be in this predicament_.

[Prisoner]: _Heim was where I arrived and Heim was where I stayed. It is a large city; one does not ask questions in such an area. I had no money and no place to go, so I found a small church in the poor part of the city that accepted pilgrims like myself. _

[Interrogator]: _Brantyn?_

[Prisoner]: _Yes, he was Abuna of the church and probably the wealthiest man in the area, well respected and liked by his peers and colleagues. He was a fine healer and, given I had no home or income, we began to work together. He had difficulty keeping up on both his duties to the church and caring for his young daughter, so he paid me a modest sum to watch over her._

[Interrogator]: _And Mannaflora?_

[Prisoner]: _Brantyn knew her, not I, she had passed before I arrived in Heim. Brantyn's daughter was Mannaflora's._

[Interrogator]: _The daughter who you later learned to be Versalia Oberyth, so it seems._

[Prisoner]: _Yes. Through Brantyn I came to amass connections in the Isles. The Archiereus Mreuva soon counted me amongst his friends and Brantyn used my connection to Mreuva to further his position; it was then that he started to call me 'brother,' once he realized that I was not only a loyal friend, but an influential one. I did not know it at first, but the moment Brantyn had time on his hands from my assistance, he began to make plans for molding the country as he saw fit._

[Witness]_: And the boy?_

[Prisoner]: _. . ._

[Interrogator]: _Balxephon asked you a question. Do not be stubborn._

[Prisoner]: _He lived with myself, Brantyn, and Catiua - Versalia. We raised them together, as a family._

[Interrogator]: _Catiua. What of your wife?_

[Prisoner]: _She died before I came to Valeria, in childbirth with my true Catiua._

[Witness]: _Enough Oz, we did not ask for his life's story._

[Interrogator]: _In interrogation, it is a necessity to acquire all evidence before we can properly judge and punish the offender._

[Witness]: _He already serves out his punishment. Get to the point, the less I must see of him, the better._

[Interrogator]: _You heard the man. So the Princess was with you the entire time; why did you eventually flee?  
><em>

[Prisoner]: _Brantyn went mad with power. It was not gradual, but instantaneous. Soon after he started to use his influence, he cared little for the people who flocked to his small church._

[Interrogator]: _But you did not leave._

[Prisoner]: _No. Where was I to go? I had no family on the Isles, my only acquaintances were in Heim, worse: I was a hunted man_.

[Interrogator]: _Why did you finally leave Heim?_

[Prisoner]: _The Archiereus started to ask questions - about me, about Denam, about Catiua – Versalia. Questions I could not answer._

[Interrogator]: _So you fled to Golyat._

[Prisoner]: _Aye._

[Interrogator]:_ Yesterday you made it clear that Mannaflora was never in Golyat, but_ _Versalia was also not in the city when we arrived. You call her Catiua, the name of your daughter, I believe you mentioned?_

[Prisoner]: _Aye._

[Interrogator]: _Where is she now? Had you only told us originally, it would not have come to this.  
><em>

[Prisoner]: _With her brother, most like. She is always by his side._

[Witness]: _The whisperers speak that the siblings had a very vocal disagreement. Where would she go?_

[Prisoner]: _The only place she knows is Golyat. If she is not with Denam, she would have returned there, even if on her own. _

[Witness]: _Ozma, alert the High Champion. Finally, a straight answer. Thank you for your assistance Oz, I'll deal with him from here.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Denam Morne placed the parchment down on the best beside him and breathed heavily in horror. He knew his already-pale skin had turned as white as the sheet he sat upon as he reread the confession, over and over again. They had to be lies, it was not possible. <em>What<em> _does it mean?_

That was not like the story his father had told him at all. The only words Denam saw were Ozma's, written at the top of the parchment:_  
>'falsehoods or creations of the ill mind'<em>

* * *

><p>A belated apology for this plotline. I hope you notice my inconsistencies that don't quite match up with what's told in-game - I assure you, this subplot is as far as I will drift from canon.<em><br>_


	4. Flurry

Law Vyce is an interesting character; it's as if he suddenly loses all of the racial hatred he held in Chapter 1, except when it comes to Lodissians, where he gets downright vicious and threatens to mutilate Barbas and Martym.

That's all well and good, but I dislike the immediate drastic change Vyce goes through. I've expanded on his flaws and his internal conflicts and tried to make him a bit less "perfectly noble."

_**Flurry**_

* * *

><p>That bloody bird hated him. Vyce Bozeck cringed as the loud thing sang just outside his window with its loud wail that was only just a rank above the seabirds and their cries in Golyat. Every morning, just before dawn, it would start its obnoxious chirps and wake him well before he was ready. He could put a pillow over his head or cover his ears with his arm in attempt to block out the sound, but all to no avail, the creature seemed intent on waking the world along with itself. It had not taken long for Vyce's sleep schedule to mold itself around the bird's; the Walister secretly thought Denam's pet birdman had squawked to it in order to get revenge for their previously hostile comments towards each other.<p>

The Walister man slowly slid from his bed and resisted the urge to throw his pillow at the window. The sky was still dark and the torches on Phidoch's white chalk walls were still lit, but he could tell the sun would rise soon, with a light red and orange glow against the base of the horizon. The floor was cool on his feet as he walked through his dark room, only just bright enough to see without candles, torches, or tallow. Vyce decided it wasn't worth the effort to worry about light when the sun would rise in little more than a half-hour and instead walked, or rather dragged, himself over to his dresser, a plain thing that held more clothes than he had ever owned in his life previously. He pulled out a top and trousers at random, all were on similar color and style and he did not particularly care which he chose, and tossed them onto his unmade bed, then picked out some underpants and socks for himself. As he crossed the room, the Walister cursed as he stumbled over the ends of his night trousers and fell against the nearby wall with a loud crash and a pained grunt; the man dropped hard onto his knees and his elbow slid down the hard stone wall near him, raw and red. In a small fit of anger, Vyce sat down onto the floor, kicked his trousers off, and tossed them into the corner for the servants to deal with. They needed a wash anyway. After a moment, the tired man pushed himself up from his pathetic self-pity and rubbed his newly sore knee; he allowed himself a small limp for two or three steps as he continued his journey about the dark room. Vyce had never been fond of mornings; he left that to Denam with his absolutely intolerable efficiency in his consistent morning patterns and his alert disposition immediately after he awakened. While Vyce's mind was still slurred from the previous night's sleep, Denam would often cook, practice, or even argue with Catiua.

The Walister man, now more cautious, made his way to the guest chamber and sjakily poured himself a glass of water – not to drink, of course, and he walked back through his private quarters to his washroom; he paid little heed to the darkness around him in his sleep-weary state and moved with habitual purpose. He pulled the towel down from the side of the bathtub and placed it on the floor before he removed his night shirt and tossed it into the corner, with little interest in where it landed. Suitably prepared and dressed only in his underpants, the Walister kneeled on the towel, head over the tub, and poured some of the cold water from the glass over his face into his hair and eyes. He cringed at its temperature, but rubbed it around to clean himself, making sure to massage it deep into his scalp, where sweat most often appeared. The water served to waken him some and he cringed as it flowed across his nose and eyes. Vyce grasped around the side of the tub until he found the soap, a large bar that was mostly unused, that he ran over his skin to scrub, because he knew Catiua would have told him to do so. He dropped the soap back into the empty tub without care and lathered the slick substance over his skin and into his pours before he finished and poured rest of the glass over his face to clear off the slimy bubbles. The water dripped down onto his chest, but he did not particularly care as it served to wake him yet more as he brushed his damp bangs back out of his eyes with his fingers and used the nearby cloth to dry himself and his body. Vyce shook his head as he stood to get rid of the excess water and clear his mind, now slightly more alert, and walked back out into his main chambers; small bumps spread across his body from the chill of the water and the cool morning air. He spared a glance out the window; it had been less than ten minutes since the bird had woken him and the sun was still barely above the horizon. It would be a warm day, he could tell, for even with the light chill he was not cold – not that southern Valeria outside of Galgastan got truly cold often. Vyce was the resilient sort, his father had always been so drunk that he'd not had the chance to start a fire in the house every evening; Vyce learned to live through the cool winters with little more than his blanket. The small chill was almost welcome to him, a familiar, nostalgic old friend that hardened him into the man he grew up to be.

Vyce stripped off his underpants, the only clothes that remained on after his short bath, and replaced them with his new ones he took out of the wardrobe earlier. He did not particularly care that his trousers had a few wrinkles, or that his underpants did not match his socks; his clothes were efficient and suited him well in daily communication, but were also formal enough that he could appear professional if necessary. Fully dressed, Vyce walked rather clumsily over to his bedstand and rustled around inside the top drawer with only touch to guide him until he discovered his small brush, which he ran through his hair to push it out of his face, as his fingers were certainly not enough to suffice. It was all automatic, done without thought other than the concentration that kept him awake. He barely glanced at the mirror to see if he looked acceptable, but did so just because his inner Catiua would scold him in that haughty way of hers if he did not. His appearance in the mirror looked a bit more alert than his mind let on and his eyes were bright, posture confident. There would be no battles, so Vyce did not bother to call a servant in to assist with his armor, but he did tie his belt around his waist and slid his daggers into their sheaths. Perhaps 'twas a bit paranoid of him, but after he had spent so long in both hiding, after Golyat was attacked, and after he fled the Walister Resistance, he had quickly learned the importance of preparation for danger at any time. The blades on his belt had saved his life on more occasions than he could count; they were old friends he went nowhere without. Pleased with his appearance and the completion of everything he would consider his morning ritual, Vyce walked over to the rug near the door and slid his boots on and tied them, not bothering to make his bed or pick up his floor. He glanced once more through his chambers to see if he forgot something in his haze before, satisfied, he pulled the loud, un-oiled door open and entered the hall.

It was as if everyone in Phidoch awakened before him. Even though the sun had barely risen, servants and soldiers alike made their way through the halls, even in the less busy area that held the quarters of the higher ranked Resistance members, where Vyce made his temporary home. In truth, many of the captains Denam employed did have higher standards than the average soldier and the servants usually spent the early mornings rushing about through the private quarters as they served them, rather than down in the soldier's barracks where they should have been. Vyce did not want the pleasures of one of rank, it would feel hypocritical of him if he took them, and instead he would bathe and eat with the others instead of having the servants fill his water. Vyce smiled at all of the Walister men and women he passed, but kept his expression flat for all others, particularly Galgastani, as he made his way through the bustling halls, one goal on his mind: breaking his fast. Ever so often he would encounter a soldier who called out to him, usually very obviously Walister by their loud and boisterous natures; Vyce always spared time for those men, no matter how foul his mood. They were the backbone of his people - many of them had followed Vyce in the New Walister Alliance at one point. Where Denam's Walister Resistance members were usually higher born, Vyce's Alliance members were the basest of commons and slaves, the average man, no different than Vyce himself. He knew their plights, their desires, their wishes, so even if it was only a few words, such as a wish of good morning or a question on how they fared, to even a simple well wishes as he passed by, Vyce spent the time to speak to them, even in his drowsiest state. The actions, too, served to wake him and soon Vyce's fog slipped away, as did his earlier foul mood about being woken up early.

By the time the Walister man reached the Great Hall, many of the soldiers had already made their way outside to the practice fields and the sun had almost fully risen, a pale purple at the top of the sky was the only evidence of the night's presence. It would be hot later, far too warm to practice with ease, so they all had to get their work, or lessons if they were inexperienced, done early. The servants still scrambled about like the dockhands on Golyat's busy ports, and they called to each other like them as well, as they attempted to fulfill the orders given to them. Vyce ignored them all as he passed, but just as he ignored them, so did they ignore him; on multiple occasions he grunted as they bumped into him in their rush. 'Twas a normal morning in the Resistance, he could hardly expect otherwise. When he finally got clear of the disorder, Vyce took a sharp right into one of the side halls that led to the mess hall. He took no more than ten steps before one of his old friends rushed up to him, out of breath with sweat dripped down his face and darkened his hair, as if he had run about all of Phidoch. The man moved far too quickly for Vyce this early in the morning, but he seemed enthusiastic and Vyce could certainly not decline a conversation with him.

"Vyce! We've sought you for the last three days." The man gasped, but not from his sprint, rather, 'twas as if he had run about speaking his plight to whomever would listen. Vyce relaxed and leaned against the wall as he recognized his new companion and allowed his guard to lower slightly. He was a young Walister, no more than sixteen, who went by the name of Alan. Alan had once been a passionate and outspoken member of Vyce's New Walister Alliance and had looked up to Vyce like an elder brother. Vyce had never quite felt the same for him, but he respected his loyalty and devotion to his people. Vyce quickly glanced down the hall past the Walister; he was only some fifty paces from the mess hall entrance and cursed his bad luck, he could have gotten in and out before the crowds. Fortunately, the mess hall did not seem as busy as he expected given the time. Usually when he awoke there was a long line of soldiers that passed through the hall as they waited for their meals, but it seemed early enough that they had not yet risen for the day. As Vyce had nothing better to do, he nodded to his young colleague.

"You musn't have looked very hard. What is it?" Vyce questioned him as he pulled out his left dagger in attempt to amuse himself for what he knew to be another session of a mixture of Alan's gloating and constant attempts to curry his favor. To his surprise, the young Walister leaned close and looked around rapidly, in worry. Vyce's eyebrows drew together in a frown as he watched the younger seem to secure their location. Vyce did not like this one bit; he had nothing to hide, nor did he communicate with those who did. He quickly slid the dagger back into its sheath, for 'twas no time to mess around, it seemed.

"Surely you've heard." Alan finally whispered, his body well within Vyce's space, too close to be comfortable. Vyce knew what this was about before young Alan could even continue. The Walister people were upset; they believed that Denam favored the more numerous Galgastani troops for whatever absurd reason. Those more rational Walister, usually the older ones, who did not believe the nonsense still harbored doubts as to how Denam would deal with the Bakram and Walister relationship when the war ended. Those Walister were not wrong to doubt; Vyce, too, worried about his friend's future plans. There were times when he wondered if Denam had forgotten his Walister pride, of the very people he grew up with and fought for in the first place, and if, in his attempt to bring peace to the isles, he would sacrifice his original goal for the broader one. The commander's mind was so focused on the politics of Valeria as a whole that he missed the barest of stones that built up the country and the reason why he was given his position in the first place.

In truth, no matter how much he questioned his friend, Vyce could hardly blame him for his distraction. Denam's job was not one Vyce envied. Vyce had been leader of the Alliance for long enough to know that to lead did not simply mean to make powerful speeches and show a strong face to the public. It required a firm hand, along with a good grasp of strategy, patience, geography, politics, and management. The harsh reality of it was that Vyce lacked many of the credentials necessary for a good leader, as he would be the first to admit he was the type to shoot the arrow before he questioned the recipient. Though Vyce founded and recruited new members to the New Walister Alliance, he had left much of its governing up to his aides and Arycelle. In contrast, Denam often refused to allow any to do work for him and it showed; his friend was eaten away from at the inside. Even though he wore a strong face, all close to him knew that there were times he could barely stand or he held in his temper at a particularly nasty jibe from an antagonistic politician.

To help his friend subtly, without damaging the other man's pride or Vyce's own, Vyce dealt with the rebellious Walister as best he could. As many were former Alliance members, Vyce used his connections to keep peace and calm and support in the disgruntled Walister troops. It had been more difficult of late, with the harsh rumors that spread about like the fire in Golyat once had. Vyce had listened to the hearsay ever since the 'rebellion' started; he had even been supping with the other soldiers when the traitors first spoke up. He claimed to be some 'shadow,' but it had not been one Vyce had ever seen and Vyce knew many of Denam's shadows and whisperers, for he interacted with them on a daily basis. That night it had served the Walister captain better to pretend he was a simple soldier and remain quiet to play ignorant than openly ally with one side or the other, as it allowed him to speak with those who sought to oust or betray their commander. At first, his ploy had worked; many former-Alliance members had calmed and saw the madness the 'shadow' spoke, but the calm rationality not to last. Soon after, the rumors continued to make their way through the ranks and became more and more believable due to evidence presented by both common man and shadow alike; even those who once spoke in Denam's defense started to muster up courage and speak of 'atrocities' they had been forced to commit in his name, namely in Balmamusa and Coritanae. Those who once supported Denam entirely began to mistrust his intentions and, no matter what Vyce said, many of his former allies had left to reform the Alliance, even if they lacked the backing they once had. Though Vyce spoke to no one about it, and he had no intention to, the former Alliance members had sworn that if Vyce chose to rejoin them, he would be welcomed with open arms as their leader once again. 'Twas all quite a mess and, to make matters worse, Denam knew – or cared – very little about it. He had certainly not acknowledged that there was a problem, nor had he spoken to any of his captains or friends about it.

"I know what this is about." Vyce replied cautiously. Certainly, Alan would not be the first who had come to him about these issues. His companion was passionate, but also very easily swayed and influenced. If words had reached his ears, it likely meant that he, too, would leave the Resistance. If Vyce's calculations proved correct, about a third of the total former Walister Resistance and Alliance forces would have deserted and it was not even a scale after the 'shadows' had spoken.

"If you did, you wouldn't remain here –"

"I remain here because I am not a short-sighted fool." Vyce snapped as he cut off the child. "Listen well, Alan, I will only speak this once." Vyce dropped his tone low and dangerous, and made sure none could hear him. "If you plan to leave, do not expect a warm welcome back when you realize how futile your struggle is. I love the Walister; just as you I want what's best for our people, but what we _need _now, more than ever, is unity that an independent Walister cannot produce. It is you and your selfish kind who damn us, not Denam!"

In frustration, Vyce pushed the other Walister away from him into the wall and ignored his shocked grunt of pain. Vyce stormed quickly past the boy and the mess hall, and ignored any shocked gasps from those who saw his brash action. It had been inappropriate to act so, but Vyce was not Denam, he had never been one to give into what others felt "proper." Even still, he could not simply allow the Walister to speak up as they did; if they continued on their path, the Resistance would once again face civil war and they would be no closer to removing the Bakram and Lodissian control than when they had started. Vyce cursed the easily manipulated Alliance members and he cursed Denam for his refusal to take action against the dissenters. His features were dark, not annoyed, simply disgusted at what transpired and at how utterly blind the Walister were. Vyce understood their plight and their desire for a free, independent Walister state, but if Lodis or the Bakram won the war, they would have neither. Vyce did not agree with Denam's plans, even if he was often the one to assist in their creation, but he was not fool enough to think the Walister could stand on their own feet yet, as their numbers were too small. He was enraged that his people could be such _fools _to be manipulated by mere words. All who saw Vyce's angry expression, and he admitted there was enough people in the hall that more than a few would know of his foul mood, took a step away and turned away, as if they wanted to be anywhere near him. 'Twas fine with him, he did not want to be bothered, either. The Walister man made his way to the long line for orders and stood at the end; his aura was threatening and those directly in front of him, and the lone soldier who cautiously stood behind him, all shifted in their nervousness at his presence. Vyce ignored them as he seethed quietly.

The line moved quickly, for which the Walister was relieved. The cooks at Phidoch were familiar with such busy meals and, though the food was not the best of quality, each soldier always left with a full stomach, fully nourished with meats, grains, and vegetables. Vyce was not a particularly picky man and he ate every bit; it was certainly better food than he had grown up with. His father had cared little to cook for him, and Vyce's own cooking was mediocre at best. He cooked only because he must for survival; in truth as he had grown, Vyce had spent many of his meals with Denam and Catiua in the Pavel household. Their dinners were such strict affairs, much different from his father's lazy informality, and very proper, even if they were almost never quiet. The drunkard who sired him had not even bothered to teach his son manners, reading and writing, or history. In truth, Vyce owed Abuna Prancet a great debt, for he had been more of a father to him than his own. Though he would never admit it, he suffered alongside Denam at the loss of his second father.

"Vyce Bozeck?" Lost in his memories, Vyce was startled from his reverie by an unfamiliar voice who called his name. A soldier Vyce did not know stood in front of himand continually shifted his balance, as if he wanted something. Vyce grunted his response, and the man continued, a bit nervous. "The Commander requests your presence, Vyce." Vyce held back a sneer. No, there was no 'Sir' by his name, nor was there any formality in the soldier's words. Vyce was not like Denam or the Knights, not a man respected by all, one who was considered noble and loyal. He was simply another soldier in Denam's army, a simple man with some skill in weaponry, strong ideals, and was a decent speaker. Had it been only scales before, back when he and Denam joined the Resistance, Vyce might have been miffed that Denam got such preferential treatment, but Vyce was a different man now. He did not particularly care how they viewed him; he took pride in that he was not so distant and formal, that he was just as much a common Walister as those he shed blood for.

"I will comply with the Commander's 'request' later. As you can see, I am about to break my fast." Vyce motioned to the line with a casual annoyance, which had steadily moved forward as he had been distracted, both by his new guest and his thoughts. He heard annoyed grumbles from behind who obviously wanted him to move, so the Walister ignored the new soldier and stepped up to keep in time with the rest who wanted their meals. To Vyce's distaste, the soldier quickly followed.

"The Commander's request was. . .firm. He claims it is imperative that you are brought to him immediately." Vyce threw his hands up in annoyance. _Bloody Denam!_ The back of his mind told him that something terrible must have occurred if Denam _required _Vyce speak with him in such a hasty manner, but the Walister had little patience in the morning and he was still angry from his encounter with the deserter Alan.

After a tense moment of silence, Vyce sighed, defeated by his rationality. An emergency was more important than his empty stomach and sour mood. "Can it not wait?" he tried once more, just in case he overthought the importance of the message.

"No." A flat response, as if he was nervous. Vyce nodded and stepped from the line, to the surprise of those around him. With no further consideration to the messenger, he roughly pushed his way through the crowd and ignored the shocked protests and curses. Vyce recognized a disaster when he saw one and if Denam needed him immediately, he was not fool enough to deny him. Vyce quickly lost the soldier who had summoned him as he made his way through the halls, now entirely alert, drowsiness and anger burned away instead replaced with a heart-pounding worry. Was it about Catiua? Had Lodis moved? Worse – had the Walister dissidents attacked? Vyce's anxiety only increased as he walked through the Great Hall. Only twenty minutes earlier the hall had bustled with soldiers of all types who had prepared to practice, but now it bustled with a variety of Galgastani who were armed to their teeth in both their armor and weapons, wizards with their staves and robes, Archers who desperately attempted to organize their arrows, and all looked as if in a panic as they tried to remain order as best they could, but with so many it only served to remain pandemonium. The Galgastani filed their way outside; whatever Denam's issue was, the summoning definitely had to do with it. Vyce would have jogged through the halls had they been emptier, instead he continued to forcefully push his way through the armor of the Resistance soldiers. He grunted at the force of the contact with the thick metal but ignored the pain; a few bruises never hurt anyone. When he was finally free of the chaos, he sprinted through the private quarters, much to the shock of the servants in his path. Denam's room was at the opposite end of the castle from the captain's quarters and it was a lone room at the end of the guest hall. It was much larger than the other rooms, but most of the space was taken up by its expansive meeting room, where Denam would call in captains and attendants for strategy sessions.

Vyce slowed as he reached the door, guarded by two high ranked Knights who often intimidated the newer recruits and servants. Vyce knew the men, good, loyal Walister who had served with Denam from their Order's founding. Vyce slowed once he reached the end of the hall and caught his breath and composed himself. The Knights knew Vyce well enough to know that he was permitted entry when he wished, as he was one of very few with that honor. Vyce nodded to the duo and knocked on the thick door with rapid taps. It was immediately apparent that he was expected that Denam answered with an abrupt call, almost sound with no words. Vyce pushed the heavy wooden door into Denam's private chambers open with a grunt and immediately looked around to get a grasp on the situation; the sunlight had finally made its way into the castle halls and it filled the room with a warm, golden glow. To Vyce's great surprise, the large meeting table at the center of the guest chamber was empty of captains, but from the way Vyce saw the disorderly chair positions, it had been filled earlier by some three or four people. On the table was Denam's large pile of parchments, not at all abnormal as his work was never parted from his side, and at the head of the table was Denam, who looked worse than Vyce had ever seen him. The commander appeared as if he had little to no sleep, with large dark circles and his hair was in utter disarray. He had not bothered to change out of his clothes he wore from the previous day, and, worse, he slumped in his chair as if the world was doomed and Denam had been the one to sign the parchment to end it himself. His friend barely looked up at him in acknowledgement he pressed his eyes closed firmly and spoke, odd accent of his and all.

"Coritanae has fallen." His words were flat and emotionless, but Vyce knew he only spoke in that manner as a form of self-defense. Denam did not wish for anyone to know how much he suffered, yet for all it was plain on his features – and Catiua always called Vyce the stubborn one!

Vyce held back his horror as best he could and walked over to the end of the table, near Denam. The chair was already pulled out, as if its previous occupant left in a rush; Vyce sat near his weary friend, if he remained standing he would have likely fallen from shock at the words he had spoken. The Walister captain cautiously pushed away Denam's parchments, which earned him no complaint; Denam most certainly must be exhausted if he did not bother to scold Vyce for disruption of his business. "What?" Vyce asked, not sure if he misheard – or, at the very least, he hoped he had heard Denam incorrectly.

"I sent for food. I know you've likely just woken and I've not supped either." Denam gave an awkward smile despite the oddness of the situation, to which Vyce returned, equally uncomfortable. Denam knew Vyce well; they had been friends long enough for both to know each other's habits. He appreciated Denam's thought, but he was more worried about his friend than he was himself. Coritnae be damned, Denam looked terrible on his own and decidedly unhealthy. More, at Denam's declaration Vyce's appetite had disappeared entirely. His heart beat rapidly in his chest from his earlier panicked jog, but now his tenseness almost made Vyce twitch in worried anticipation. Something horrible had happened.

"You cannot just say such things and refuse to elaborate." Vyce's tone was harsher than he intended, but it was out of panic and worry. Denam nodded and pushed himself up from his slumped position in the chair to a more alert, professional manner. "Is it a rebellion?"

"I suppose. Revolution might be the better term for it. As you're aware, Raveness and Juenan are members of a new politically dominant party in Galgastan. They watch over the young lord in Brigantys and, for a time, held the popularity of the people. Over the past week, all of the nobles who supported them" Denam looked directly into Vyce's eyes as he said this, as if to emphasize his point. "were found dead in the rooms."

"The nobles are only a sign of power; likely they did little other than sit on their chairs and eat whatever lard it is they feast upon all day long as others do the work for them." Vyce mused as Denam looked away. "Surely that's not all?" A few dead nobles did not mean the end of Coritanae.

"Vyce, now's not the time for your comments." Denam snapped offhandedly. He did not even bother to look back towards Vyce as he continued. "No, that's not all. I recently recalled some of my troops from Coritanae because I planned for an assault on Barnicia, as you're well aware. Soon after, an armed rebel group stormed the keep. They butchered all of the Resistance members who did not surrender, and killed many of the politicians and innocents. They now hold both the city and now move to take the young Lord from Brigantys. Coritanae is all but theirs, as they've the support of the people there. Worse, political dissent rises out all through Galgastan as new factions form." Denam spoke wearily, stiffly, as if he read from a book.

"You've sent troops to reclaim Coritanae, I suppose." Vyce would have been much happier if Denam just let Galgastan destroy itself. That would have been one less issue to resolve once peace came to Valeria, 'twould teach them some humility. Then, once they were in ashes, they would rise as equals to the Walister. In that case, Vyce would have no issue welcoming them with open arms. Denam nodded in response to Vyce's question, and before he could be questioned further on the situation, another knock sounded. As he did with Vyce, Denam called for entry with little more than a vocal grunt. At the acknowledgment of entry, a servant cautiously made her way into the meeting room, Vyce saw the trays in her arms, and curtsied as best she could without her hands to aid her. Denam and Vyce watched the servant with an instinctual caution as the woman tried her very best to pretend she did not notice the tension in the air and placed the food down before both Denam and Vyce. She had not brought any water, but he supposed Denam had some somewhere in his room if he needed it; 'twas not his place to complain, as Catiua would have said, for he was the guest. Vyce knew Denam would have a fit if he did not let him have the first bite, so Vyce simply sighed as the commander looked at his food with relative disinterest before he finally placed one of the fruits into his mouth without a word. The two continued their discussion as they ate, neither much cared for the taste, as their mind was on more important matters and the servant exited without a word.

"Ravness and Juenan requested the position and I was in no place to decline. I worry that if this trend continues we will lose all Galgastani support, as they will be forced into civil war; more, the whisperers in Galgastan speak similar rumors to those that were told here."

"So you know of the rumors." Vyce was surprised; he was almost certain Denam had not dealt with the slander that had circulated through the Resistance for the last three weeks. Vyce knew his friend had much on his mind and, when he chose to, could be remarkably closed-minded and short-sighted at times.

"Aye, I've known about them for a time. As soon as I learned I asked some of our friends try to dissuade their spread." So Vyce was not the only one who actively tried to stop them. In a way, it was a relief, but it was much like fighting back a hurricane with a wall of sand. It would only work for so long. "In truth, I think the efforts might have saved the support of many in Phidoch."

"So you think the whisperers work against you in Coritanae?" Vyce chose to change the subject before Denam led it in the direction he knew his friend wanted to. Vyce knew Denam well enough to know that he wished to ask if he could use his contacts in the former-Alliance members for information, but Vyce's answer was an absolute no. Vyce was loyal to the Walister just as much as he was to Denam, he would not betray those who put their trust in him. They were normal men, not objects to manipulate and bend to Denam's influential will. Even if the rumors were false – and, truly, they were ridiculous - the men still harbored doubt in the Resistance leadership. Until they came to terms with themselves, they would only be a hindrance to the Resistance and their cause.

"No, Vyce, I _know _it." Denam took a bite of his food and grimaced as if he forced it down. "'Tis the Dark Knights who plan this." So that was how he chose to play this game. Vyce frowned deeply; it seemed the distrust between them had not fully mended itself, if Denam would not speak of the issue. Vyce knew 'twas mostly his own fault, as he continually attacked Denam whenever he disagreed with his friend, but it still felt odd to have the distance Vyce had pushed between them only be forced further by Denam, who had always attempted to act as their peacekeeper. "Do not give me that look Vyce, this is not something I can openly discuss."

Vyce held back his snarl, but new his instinctive anger truly held back a loneliness he would never show. Friends, allies, they meant nothing if they could be tossed away so easily or were held at arm's length when it suited the commander. They may work together, they may respect and enjoy each other's company, but there was a deep gap between them that could only be filled with trust that neither were willing to give. Vyce was not the type of man to live and let live, Denam would hear about his dissatisfaction later, but he accepted that this 'twas not the time for squabbles. "So how do you know 'tis the Lodissians and not the natural order of the Galgastani people?" The Galgastani were barbaric and brutal and often did not hesitate to cut down their own - not that Vyce could call the Walister Resistance any different. They had long since abandoned the dream of the Walister people for a dream of a better future for everyone on Valeria - even if their methods had previously been. . .questionable.

Vyce ignored the sharp look Denam gave him in reprimand for his vocal distaste for the Galgastani. Denam was always 'unity, unity, friendship, love, peace' when he was always so blind that there were many who could not accept it, not after what happened between the Clans. There was too much hatred, pain, memories of death and despair for acceptance to occur quickly. Vyce wanted peace, but the thought of living alongside a Galgastani, in the same town as neighbors and friends, was still entirely foreign and he was not sure if he could accept it. Denam did not understand what Vyce felt, the hatred, the disgust, the baser fear; it had been all Vyce grew up with, while Denam was safely tucked away in his church with his family. Denam shook his head and leaned over his food bowl to pick through his pile of parchments. After a moment, when he found what he sought, he continued as if Vyce had said nothing. "When I received my last report, this was in it." Vyce picked up the parchment and before he could glance through it, Denam finished. "This came alongside the word from our whisperers of the situation, as if a purposeful mockery by the sender to tell us he knows who our shadows are. I've been toyed with for a scale or so now; Balxephon, my harasser, is the only one who would send such."

Vyce's eyes fell down onto the report that Denam had handed him. _What does the Dark Knight Balxep_- Vyce's thought stopped as he comprehended what he saw. On the parchment was a detailed list of Catiua's habits, meal times, a schedule that listed any travel and speaking plans, as well as her guards and training sessions. The report was detailed enough that only a whisperer of extremely high position in Loslorien's ranks would have written it. Or, if Denam believed correctly, it was sent to him purposely by one of their Commanders for a reason Vyce could not comprehend. All thoughts of Galgastan and Coritanae fell from Vyce's mind as he read this and he suddenly understood Denam's dilemma. If what was on this parchment was true, there was no need to assault Barnicia other than to prevent an attack from the rear when they approached Heim – if the Resistance even could take the northern castle at all with their split numbers. Vyce felt an excitement well within, but forced himself down into rationality before he thought up something foolish. If Denam said the Dark Knights sent it, it likely was not from one of his whisperers. While the parchment was useful in that it showed where Catiua's greatest influence was, and where Lodis planned to expand it in the future, the note could not be trusted and was most likely a trap.

"You plan something rash." Vyce murmured as he continued to glance over the times. Yes, he could save Catiua with this. He would have to pull some strings, and hire some shadows to learn if the information was true, but if the Dark Knight had not lied, they would not need a full army. After all, Denam had somehow won that witch Ozma to his side, no one knew how he accomplished _that_ particular feat; he could possibly have turned more his way with whatever magic he wielded. Vyce amused himself at the image. If Catiua returned to the Resistance, Vyce knew Loslorien would be at a disadvantage, for they were the ones who recognized her in front of the entire country, they could not simply revoke their support and not look like fools – well, any more than they did after how much territory they had lost already.

"No more rash than what you plan." For the first time that day, both men met each other's eyes and chuckled. As expected, Denam and he both wanted to find some way to act upon what they had. For all of their disagreements, the two knew each other too well and and closer than anyone else on the islands. Denam looked down at his food, still barely half done, and rolled a berry along the edge of his plate, mood lightened. "This is a trap. You know it, I know it; the bloody Dark Knight sent it to us knowing we would know it." In annoyance, Denam stabbed the berry with his fork, its pinkish juices spilled out of the sides and over the small area it occupied. Vyce nodded and picked at his own berries, not his preferred fruit but he certainly did not complain. Both knew there was no choice, if the Galgastani were in civil war and Denam had sent a large force back to Coritanae and Brigantys, Vyce doubted they would have the numbers to take on the Lodissians and Bakram who resided at Barnicia. That doubt became fact when Vyce considered the distrust between Commander and Vyce's former-Alliance, and whoever else, members. The Resistance would need to work in shadows, with as few knowledgeable about their assault as possible. Only the most skilled members of their army would assist, perhaps a few score, a force that would be enough to easily match one of the detachments within Loslorien, but any more than that would get them killed. None could know of their movements and any more would make them easy to discover and report.

"We don't have the experience for an assault like this." Vyce finally spoke. Loslorien's specialty was small-scale assaults, if the shadows spoke truly. Denam and Vyce knew most about moderately-sized battles, though both had quickly learned about larger, more aggressive army battles as the tide had turned in the Resistance's favor. But small battles were a different matter entirely; it allowed less flexibility and diversity and each member of the force must be at their very best in skill and equipment. They had to work as a team and not question orders, else the entire force would fall, not just a small group. To make matters worse, Vyce knew he and Denam were not particularly skilled at espionage. It would be a dangerous undertaking to assault Barnicia on the Dark Knights' terms.

"You speak only what we both know." Denam spoke wearily. He did not bother to sigh, for his neutral tone and condition were exhausted enough to prove that 'twas not Coritanae that troubled him, but Catiua. To Vyce's surprise, Denam's eyes and manner hardened in almost an instant after his words, as if he had found some passion hidden away at the back of his mind. "We cannot sit about idly, else our forces will be destroyed from the inside out and we will barely be able to move a detachment let alone a force even remotely capable of taking Barnicia." Vyce almost saw the cogs work in Denam's head; he had a plan, likely a dangerous one and even more likely one that Vyce would disagree with. 'Twas _because _Vyce so often pointed out the flaws in Denam's strategies that the two often conferred together before battle. "No, we will not wait; to do so would be suicidal to our cause." Vyce clenched down as he waited for whatever Denam's absurd idea was. "We play Lodis' game against them."

_That was all? _Vyce was almost disappointed; he had expected an elaborate plan that would allow them to steal Catiua back. "Out with it." Vyce cut through the meat on his plate and plopped it into his mouth. He savored the taste; his time in poverty and hiding taught him to never take such fine foods for granted. Vyce swallowed forcefully when he saw Denam's dark look, in response; his smile chilled him to the bone.

"Tartaros will not expect us to swear loyalty to Catiua – Versalia." Vyce was glad he had swallowed his food, for he would have choked at Denam's self-satisfied words, as if he had all planned.

"And what? Throw down our arms?" Vyce snapped out, he could hardly believe what Denam said. He was as much as proposing to sell the Resistance – Valeria! - to Lodis. No – Vyce calmed himself, Denam had no love for Lodis, what he planned to do was force Catiua from hiding to return to the safety of the Resistance, even if it meant he must feign a temporary treaty until Brantyn agreed to put aside his power. He was sure there was more to it than that, but Vyce felt little need to consider it further. The plan disgusted him. He did not like to give Lodis what they wanted, even if only for show. "They will not believe your oath unless you submit and treat." If Denam opted to do that, no matter the reason, the Resistance truly would fall apart.

"Precisely." The look remained, as if Vyce played into Denam's hands with his angry words and shock. The Walister captain still did not understand his friend's intentions and whatever game he played disturbed him. Fortunately, he did not have to wait for the explanation. "You are right, of course, swearing loyalty is a terrible idea, from a strategic standpoint. Our troops will splinter and much of the Resistance will be broken - that is precisely why Lodis will not expect it." Denam chuckled, it was pleasant held the now-familiar somber look that Denam always retained, as if he hated what he had to do but had long accepted it as necessity. "You and I are well known for our disagreements, 'twas you who splintered the Resistance before."

"You wish for us to act as we do best?" Vyce was not sure if it amused him, shocked him, or horrified him. Denam certainly had a point, the Walister would follow him if they disliked the path Denam went and Vyce opted to lead the alliance - they had all but begged for it. On the other end, if Denam swore to Catiua, the droves of those who had first abandoned the Resistance to bow to her would seep back and fill the numbers the Galgastani troops had left. Vyce marveled at its brilliance; in the end, they would end up with more numbers than they started with. 'Twas a risky gamble and though it worked well in simple discussion, in practice Vyce assumed that many would leave the war entirely in anger. The rift caused would be irreparable and, though they worked towards the same goals, many would not follow Denam again, even if they learned the action was a ploy. Vyce mused on the latter; perhaps the situation was worse than he had realized. Denam had so much on his mind; he kept his problems to himself and rarely discussed such issues such as loyalty with anyone. Could the Alliance's distaste have spread farther than Vyce, or anyone, had realized? Was the Resistance truly so close to collapse that Denam, desperate to keep it afloat, would go against all of his morals, against everything he stood for? But – he had done the same in Balmamusa. His old friend continually did what was necessary, not what he wanted, or what he felt was right. To save the lives of everyone country, Vyce knew that Denam would swear his eternal loyalty to Lanselot Tartaros so long as it meant Lodis leave the country in peace forever. Then he would likely kill himself in his shame; neither Vyce nor Denam would allow it to come to that. Vyce finally sighed, there seemed to be no changing his friend's mind at times like these_**. **_All Vyce could do was pick apart the plans and find as many flaws as he could and make sure they never occurred.

"With those troops who've deserted, and the troops of my Alliance – nay, likely the entire Walister force – together, we can take Heim alongside the Resistance, which would hold the remaining of the Walister and Galgastani companies. We cannot forget the Bakram, either; many will support Catiua when they learn her army is on the march. The Alliance will 'take advantage of the skirmish between the Princesses and Regent' and take Heim for themselves." He finally acknowledged, voice quiet and doubtful; in order to distract himself, Vyce took a bite of the waffle on his plate. He closed his eyes and attempted to savor the flavor, but he got little from it in his disquiet.

Again Denam nodded, satisfied, as if Vyce finally understood. They would replace any lost troops with the Bakram who wished for Catiua's rule and the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom would collapse upon itself. Vyce's mind jarred to a halt; Denam's insanity had finally seeped into him. For an unbelievable moment, he had considered his friend's fool plan! "You're mad, Denam, truly mad! I won't allow you to do this." Denam only smiled at him with true amusement, which only perturbed Vyce further. This time the sacrifice was not the Walister, but Denam himself – well, and the Galgastani in their shattered kingdom. What Denam suggested would require the Resistance to withdraw from Coritanae entirely, unless that was what his friend had planned all along: to leave the Galgastani to take care of their own problems, free of Walister influence. "I am surprised that you would give up the Galagstani. Their troops make up a sizable portion of our forces." Vyce changed the subject in hopes to get Denam's mind off of his new plan.

"I do not abandon the Galgastani. Not all will leave, as most truly believe in the future we fight for and know the rebellion in Coritanae to be pointless. I expect many to remain allied with me, for they certainly will not go with you and the Walister." Denam spoke as if Vyce had agreed with his plans; the commander only did that when he knew he had won. "The Galgastani must sort their problems out themselves; if the Walister interfere, they will feel as if the Walister force their beliefs unto them and hatred between clans will only continue. Coritanae will not be a sacrifice, but a token of understanding, trust, and acceptance."

So Denam had not sent Ravness and Juenan there to keep peace after all, as he had first implied. Or perhaps he went as far as to tell the duo that peace was what he wanted them to uphold, but kept his true intentions hidden. Even his friends danced to his strings; Denam gave Catiua strict competition when it came to requiring control over the situation, but perhaps Catiua slightly edged him out in efficiency, for Denam would consider the tool's feelings on the subject. Vyce shook his head and he went back onto the previous subject. It _seemed_ as if it could work, but he knew something would go wrong. There had to be something he overlooked, but under such pressure he could not properly analyze the situation. The back of Vyce's mind, irrational and angry, screamed that it could not work, twas absurd, and that there was too much risk, for human nature was fickle. The latter voice spoke loudest, but at the same time Vyce agreed with Denam in that the status quo would only destroy the Resistance. "I cannot agree to this; even if only for show, this is unacceptable." Vyce's mind worked fervently to come up to the answer to the question he knew Denam would next ask.

"Then you've a better idea?" His tone was so utterly Denam, so similar to the way he had always spoken to Vyce when they were children that, had the situation not been so tense, he would have laughed. It was a false curiosity and acceptance, but in truth his words held a condescending 'I don't believe you can' behind them. Was such intonation used by anyone but Denam or Catiua, Vyce would have been furious, instead he simply took a small amusement from it. Of course Vyce did not have a better idea - he had only just learned of the situation moments before! He spoke the first thought that came to mind.

"We kill Brantyn." As expected, the commander just stared flatly at him. Vyce's mind worked quickly as it could. Sneaking into Heim and killing Bthe Regent was out of the question, of course – Denam's flatter accent might make him a viable candidate, but Vyce would be called out as soon as they heard he was Walister. Unless they posed as refugees, the duo would be unable to reach Heim at all. No, they needed to ally the Bakram before they dealt with the Lodissians. "The shadows, and rumors, speak of a disagreement or split between Lodissian and Bakram." Even Vyce knew of the situation; word that the Dark Knights did not support Brantyn politically had gone around since Catiua was named Princess with Lodis's backing. They could not turn their back on Brantyn, of course, but they did not support him in their war effort against the Resistance, either. "So we move towards Barnicia. Brantyn will appreciate assistance in dealing with the foreigners, no doubt, and leave us be while we attack, but we may encounter some resistance getting there, for we intrude on their land."

"And you name _me_ mad? 'Twill never work, we don't have the numbers and to attack Heim while the Dark Knights reside in Barnicia is only asking for an dagger in our flank -" Vyce cut Denam's outraged and shocked response off because he could continue.

"Be silent and listen. I heard to your insanity, you will hear to mine." Vyce did not quite know if he believed what he said, for he spoke the first thing that came to mind. As he thought on it, the image became clearer and more defined, as if it _could _work. "We will not take Barnicia, simply make it appear as if we do. No, we must beyond it, to the Boulder Sands. While our forces deal with the Bakram there, a small group will sneak into Barnicia and rescue Catiua. Lodis will then have no power on the isles and will be unwelcome; they will not be able to attack us in retaliation without inciting the wrath of their masters." Vyce hesitated for a moment; he was doing just what he always criticized Denam of: seeing Catiua as a tool. Even if this never came to pass, he made mental note to apologize to the woman. "Then, as you say, 'we play Lodis' game against them.' No doubt many in Heim are loyal to the Princess; we cause a political split within the Bakram, so that his supporters flock to our side. We will not even have to lift our sword, for as soon as we march on Heim, Brantyn's own people will slit his throat and open the gates for Catiua." Perhaps his imagination played tricks on him, but Vyce could have sworn that Denam looked ill for a half-second before his expression returned to its neutrality.

Was Denam less mannered, he likely would have tapped his silverware against his plate; their plans were similar enough in nature, both required Catiua's support, and both risked much on the nature of revolution and dissatisfaction with rule. Vyce's strategy was acceptable for one he thought up on a whim, but the Walister wondered if he underestimated the devotion and loyalty of the Bakram. The Bakram were almost as insane as the Galgastani, but theirs was more one who was drunk on power than one who believed themselves superior – more, they did not fight their own battles. The people of the Bakram-Valerian Kingdom were all well-fed and had no reason to revolt as they had pleasant, prosperous lives under Brantyn. Vyce could not expect such spoiled, selfish people – an entire clan of those who had never once known suffering - to risk their lives for the betterment of the country. The Bakram were not the same men the Walister were.

"There is too much risk." Denam spoke firmly, as he had already discarded Vyce's idea. Vyce did not disagree; the more he thought on it, the more he realized the Bakram would be of no help to their cause and that thre was little to stop the Dark Knights from attacking their flank as the Resistance took the Boulder Sands, with or without Catiua. The captain was more annoyed about Denam's tone, which was the one he used when he had already made up his mind and there was nothing Vyce could do to change it. He simply assumed Vyce would go along with his plan, just as everyone else went along with his will without question. In truth he was right and Vyce did not like that one bit. If Denam asked him to move, he would, because he respected his friend's skill enough to know he would not send him to his death. Denam was far more likely to be the one killed than he in this event, assassinated, most likely; Vyce did not wish to see him die when he had the power to stop it as well. Denam continued, oblivious to Vyce's worries. "You rely too heavily on chance. We'd have better luck killing Tartaros in a secret meeting of alliances." His tone was sarcastic, but both knew he was right. Vyce's eyes widened at the thought; a secret meeting would work beautifully, perhaps Denam's plan had some merit in that they could- Denam's words cut him off, as he understood where Vyce's thoughts were directed. "Not a chance; Tartaros will not come personally when I swear to Catiua. To kill him, we need him alone, without the personal guard he is always behind. Patience Vyce, our chance will come soon enough."

"There must be another way. Even if it is not true, you will be betraying our people – you will betray yourself. Most will never forgive you." It was an odd bout of sadness that Vyce felt for his friend. That the Walister splinted so sharply that Denam was on the verge of giving up sent hurt Vyce as well. His friend was one of the most stubborn men Vyce knew, the only one who could match Vyce himself; his friend's despair bit deeply into him. A rare bout of empathy from him, to be certain.

"I sent the missive out last night." Denam finally pushed his bowl away, food only half-eaten. He looked as if he wanted more, but lacked the motivation to lift the silverware to his mouth. He slumped down and put his head into his hands, propped up by his elbows on the table. It was no wonder Denam looked so terrible, he simply awaited for his notice of death to be signed.

"Y-You didn't." Vyce could hardly believe his ears and he slammed his fist on the table; the plates bounced and Denam's parchments moved around slightly at the force. "You go too far! We should at least discuss the plans with our companions!" Vyce resisted every urge he had to storm from the room, but stopped himself. It seemed he was the only sane one in the entire bloody army. He was the last one who could save the Resistance from itself.

"Mreuva agreed to the plan, as did Canopus, Ravness, Hobyrim, Gildas, Donnalto. . .I spoke to everyone I could on such short notice. I've known about Coritanae for three days now Vyce." Vyce sat back, struck into silence, and knew full well he felt betrayed that Denam had not asked or discussed a strategy with him as well. Perhaps because his friend knew he would never agree to such a plot that he did not bother to speak with him about it. The problem was not that their companions agreed to Denam's insanity, 'twas more that, and Vyce would bet a year's worth of Goth on it, Denam did not tell them the full extent of his plans. They trusted him, many without question, and even if the idea seemed strange at first glance, they knew Denam meant them no harm. He need not tell them everything, and they would simply fall into place behind him with a smile. Vyce, too, shared their sentiment, but he was not so blind to Denam's kind words and honorable façade. If none else would question him, Vyce knew he must. Even as he readied himself to demand answers and lash out in anger, Vyce felt himself deflate in despair.

"So-" Vyce breathed out before he fell silent. He told himself to be rational, but his anger, distress worry, and even relief at the thought that they could save Catiua soon filled him. It was too late, no matter what Vyce said, he could not save his friend from himself. The least he could do was minimize the losses. "You expect me to leave now?" He finally relented. It seemed Vyce's orders were already laid out whether he wanted to follow them or not. Denam pulled his strings, just as he did everyone else's. His friend was not the type to give orders that were unquestionable - Denam always wanted his friends to question him - but Vyce knew if he did not agree to whatever plan Denam had for him the war with Lodis and the Bakram would be lost. He cursed his friend for the predicament he had placed him in, and, more, he cursed his own stubbornness in that he could not just refuse and walk away. Denam should have awaited word on the situation in Galgastan before any rash moves were made!

"No. We must make a scene. It must be public, vocal, reported by Loslorien's whisperers. The best time would be after we publicly announce my new stance on the Princess." With a sigh, Denam pushed himself up from his chair. His stiff motions and prolonged stretch made it seem as if he had not risen for hours. Without another word, the commander gathered all of the parchments and tossed them with little care onto his chair he was just in, as if they were entirely pointless. Vyce remained in place and watched as his friend moved about, as if he was an old man, and into his private chambers. If Denam thought their conversation was over, Vyce would show him how quickly he was mistaken; he could not just dismiss him after words like that! Vyce was sure the situation wasn't nearly as bad as Denam claimed. It took all of his self-control to not stomp into Denam's quarters and demand answers.

Ten minutes later, when Vyce's patience reached it limit and his food was gone, Denam had still not returned. Perhaps he washed himself; his friend had some skill with Fire magic so likely the commander had lit the small fire underneath his tub to warm the water. Or, more likely, maybe he had fallen asleep – it didn't matter. Whatever the reason for his exit, Denam seemed to have no wish to return. In the commander's absence, Vyce's gaze continually fell onto the orders on the chair, as if his friend had left them there purposefully, for him to look at. _You musn't do this. _His rationality told him that he could lose Denam's trust if he ever learned of Vyce's actions, but his body moved without pause as he stood and walked the few steps over to Denam's abandoned chair. What troubled Vyce more than all else was his friend's seemingly brash plan. His friend had to have a reason for what he did; a few small rumors and an uprising at Coritanae would not call for such extreme measures such as to split the Resistance in two. Denam did not want to worry anyone, most like, and did not tell him of all of the problems they faced. Vyce closed his eyes and shook his head; he had been irrational to snap like he had in his anger. Denam did not mean to antagonize him; his actions were always of the best intentions, even if his method was questionable.

Vyce quietly glanced down at the parchments and picked up the first few. Perhaps he and Denam were not so different, if he was willing to go through his friend's private belongings, military secrets no less, for the betterment of them all. Most of the parchments were simple reports, such as movements, and were pointless. As he made his way through, he saw Denam's unique organization; though they appeared a mess, he had similar reports and orders atop one another, by category. It was not long until Vyce reached the more important missives. He continually spared glances towards Denam's private chambers, but the commander seemed to be busy with whatever his business was and had left Vyce to his own devices. Even still, Vyce was tense and his heart beat rapidly in fear he would get caught. The Walister looked down with shock at some of the reports: Xenobia had declined political assistance beyond neutrality despite their shared enemy of Lodis; he was furious Denam had appealed to them at all. He and Denam had discussed this particular issue land both wanted the country to earn its own freedom, without foreign intervention. Vyce wondered why Denam had gone back on his word, or perhaps he hoped to assist the Xenobians in the search for their blade, but wanted to assure he would obtain political backing from its return. Vyce clenched his jaw and continued to read the parchments. Former Alliance-members defected in droves, far more than Vyce realized, and had taken up residence primarily in Krysaro. Apparently they had great influence in the sea trade in Port Asyton and had closed the ports to any who would do business with the Walister Resistance. Vyce's eyes widened at the implication; no wonder Denam was in a panic about this, Port Asyton was imperative to trade in the south and the Alliance had moved fast with its political relations, dangerously so. They must have prepared for scales, even without Vyce's leadership. If the south was cut off from the sea, the war would all be lost; Vyce did not need to know their plans to see that Balmamusa would be next to fall. Another report spoke that the Castellan of Almorica had been assassinated; Vyce knew the man, a noble, worthless beyond the funds he donated to the Resistance. Not much of a loss beyond its political implications. What worried him more was the murderer: the Tigers of Burnham had taken credit. Denam's shadows spoke that the Tigers were on the move and their recruitment soared as they despised Denam and his methods. If Denam did nothing about them, it would not be Lodis who attacked their flank, but their own people, Walister and Galgastani alike.

The situation was bad, more dangerous than Vyce realized and worse than Denam would admit to anyone. The truth of the matter was that the Resistance fell apart not from the whispers of the Dark Knights, but from their own people. The problems, revolts, anger, they had had all accumulated to the point where none could be ignored any longer. Vyce did not to look any further, he saw the depths they had fallen, though if he had he would not have been surprised if there was yet more problems facing the Resistance, such as debt or supply issues, especially with Asyton blocked. It pained Vyce to admit, but it _was _partially his fault. He had been the one to start the Alliance, to call to arms all of those who wanted to fight for the Walister, but disagreed with Ronwey's methods. As Vyce looked at Denam's orders, he saw how sound his plan was; the Walister would follow him again, and Vyce could muster some semblance of control of the south while Denam worked on the North. Had Denam only not told him the truth originally, Vyce would not have been so irrational.

Though he now knew of the situation, the Walister looked through Denam's reports with one goal: Catiua. Catiua was the last item of importance that Denam knew about and would not speak to Vyce of. It did not take him long to find what he sought, a small pile near the bottom with very vague information, mostly rumors, but he noted that the largest report was actually written by Denam, not any shadow, as if he had tried to organize the information in his head. Vyce glanced over it quickly; Catiua had continually refused Denam's private missives. More importantly, all reports showed that Catiua was with Loslorien willingly. Denam told all who inquired that Catiua had been kidnapped, yet a small personal note that was marked as 'Possible' on the page said that Catiua likely was drawn to Tartaros for his promises of safety and protection. Vyce breathed inward quietly in shock; no matter what Denam publicly stated of Loslorien and Catiua's relations the report spoke a different tale. Vyce did not understand; he had heard Catiua and Denam had argued, but he had never imagined Denam had harmed her so deeply that she would walk away with the Lodissians with no fight at all. 'Twas almost as if Denam tried his hardest to believe that Catiua was stolen away, even if it meant he rejected the truth in front of him. Or perhaps Catiua had fallen prey to her own game, and had been manipulated by the foreigners. Vyce did not have enough information to make such a judgment.

The Walister man withdrew and put the reports back into the pile as best he could before he turned away, both in shock and disgust, anger and sadness, frustration and respect. Denam had it harder than they all realized, yet he spoke no complaints and never asked for help. But his respect quickly turned bitter; just what had the two argued of that had torn Catiua apart so deeply? The Walister man worried Catiua might never recover from such emotional trauma, especially after her excursion with the Dark Knights and whatever whispers they spoke to her. Vyce now understood why Denam was so troubled, but the true reasons awakened a subtle anger within him. The deceptions, the outright lies, Denam had become everything he once hated. Perhaps the commander saw his actions as 'just,' but Vyce could not accept them. Perhaps 'twas better they spent some time apart, Vyce did not know if he could tolerate his friend's foolishness. Vyce shook his head and turned away. He could not face Denam; he was angry, upset, distressed and, worse, he had to plan for the commander's reckless, suicidal stratagem. A new plan was his only chance to save his friend from his own madness, and to rescue Catiua from the manipulation of the Lodissians, he could not back out now. Perhaps he would speak to Alan again, and start to listen to his rumors with feigned agreement. He would need to make some show of loyalty to the Alliance after he had rejected Alan so violently earlier.

The Walister man turned away from the table, the reports, and Denam and walked out of the room, long past emotions such as anger and exhaustion and instead was in a state of a placid acceptance. He was not the type to follow orders blindly, but for his friends and for his people, he saw no choice. The two guards outside of Denam's chambers did not acknowledge his presence as he passed and Vyce preferred it that way, he did not want their artificial, forced respect that did not judge him by his abilities, but instead his position. As soon as the Walister was out of range, he slammed his fist against the wall in anger; he loathed the position he was put into and he cursed the Lodissians yet again for how they tore his friends and family apart.

The Wheel cursed all the survivors of Golyat.


	5. Rain

I've borrowed rather heavily from 3N in this chapter, to make events more consistent in the game world.

_**Rain**_

* * *

><p>"The envoy arrives in Rhime today."<p>

Vyce leaned against the stone wall near one of the large windows in Denam's empty personal meeting chamber. He did not bother to look up as his friend spoke and instead kept his gaze firmly on the ground in front of him; though well cleaned, the stone floor still held a tint of brown from countless years of booted feet that walked upon it. His breath caught in his chest abruptly at Denam's words before he forced its release, calm and controlled. It had only been five days; that the Lodissians had agreed to treat so quickly only showed they were almost as desperate as the Resistance was. Vyce rolled his shoulder and pushed himself to the left, so that he leaned onto the window and could look out into the distance.

"So quickly?" Vyce was proud of how composed his tone remained. His gaze swept over the courtyard; the midday sun was the only mar on the pure blue of the cloudless sky, some birds called, but most of them preferred to sing in the early mornings or late evenings, like his obnoxious 'roommate.' A few of Phidoch's citizens, young children, ran through the wide courtyard and played in the shade of its walls; the young ones would be escorted out back to town as soon as a Resistance member found them, but Vyce smiled at their facetiousness. They likely had not had a chance to play in the castle when the Dark Knights held the city. Such laughing, smiling children were a pleasure to watch; he was amused at the thought, as the Walister would have not thought similarly even a year and a half in the past. Perhaps he was getting old.

"Aye, I received word yesterday. _We_ are to meet them this evening." Denam's voice sounded more alive than it had in the last two days previous Vyce had spoken to him, and Vyce noted the heavy emphasis that told him he was certainly not going to escape Denam's fate. The commander held himself as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and his tone no longer held its previous weariness. Denam was well-rested and looked healthy again, likely due to Vyce's continued refusal to speak with him until he had slept properly and because the commander no longer had to hold all of his worry in, instead he actually acted upon it, not only mused on every negative possibility. From behind, Vyce could hear as Denam sat down in his chair at the table and poured a cup of water. "I'm sure they were quite surprised; I've as well as surrendered and sworn myself to their cause."

"Why Rhime?" Denam's light mood influenced his own and Vyce nonchalantly questioned his friend to keep the air familiar between them. He did not particularly care for the answer, the words were only meant to keep Denam's mind off his troubles. Vyce closed his eyes as he awaited his friend's answer and let the warm sunlight flow onto him; for a day in the wet season, the weather was surprisingly hot. Phidoch was well built and sturdy and the temperatures did not shift rapidly within. In a few hours, 'twould soon be hot a miserable in the castle's walls - best revel in the warmth while 'twas still tolerable and not miserable. He missed the consistent coolness of Golyat, but the weather was a minor complaint and Vyce was pleased he had time to internally muse on it, for it showed there were few pressing matters on his mind.

"'Why,' indeed? I know not. Rhime is Resistance territory, 'twould make more sense to have us travel to their lands as a sign of trust." Denam's reply was equally disinterested. He probably cared even less for the answer than Vyce did, as unlike the captain, the commander had much on his mind that prevented him for musing over such trivialities.

"More likely that they do not trust the Bakram any more than you or I. They feel confined and limited in their movements – not to mention they're spied upon by the Regent." Vyce offered. If the Dark Knights were so eager to treat with Denam and feared to do so on Bakram land, the only reason would be because they no longer trusted Brantyn – and rightfully so. "The Regent seeks the Princess just as we do, it makes sense they do not wish her location to be known." Brantyn so desperately sought Catiua that he had even shared his information with Resistance whisperers – yet it had apparently been one of Denam's own Shadows, not the Regent's, that had found her and Denam conveniently feigned ignorance of her location, even as he had mobilized his troops in Phidoch in preparation for an assault. Vyce's own 'friends' were primarily Walister and had been of no help in the search, to his shame, but even if Vyce had not been the one to locate Catiua, he was still both excited to see her, but also dreaded it, for he had no idea what she would say or do.

"Fair enough." Denam spoke almost dismissively. Vyce heard rapid scrawls on a parchment from behind, Denam's interest in the conversation already lost as his mind focused on his job of commander. The room lapsed into a comfortable silence once again as both savored the temporary peace, as both knew it was a prelude to the more hostile future, much like the light wind before a thunderstorm. Vyce had not expected the news to come so quickly; he thought perhaps he had a week, maybe two, before he and Denam would have to make their scene. He had so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to demand, yet not a word passed over his lips, more from inability than that he lacked the desire to speak his mind; Vyce did not understand his emotions, let alone could he put them to words. How he loathed Denam, for 'twas he who got them into the mess with Catiua, how he could not hold the Resistance together, how "he had still refused to mend his ways and accepted sacrifice. Vyce remembered their trip to Port Omish, the broken city full of children who barely survived, in worse condition than Vyce, Denam, and Catiua had been, even after Golyat. But where the Walister held much hate, there was almost as much respect and friendship and, though would never admit it aloud, Denam was the only family Vyce had left. He could not discard their bond so easily, even if his rationality told him, at times, that perhaps it would be better to leave the Resistance and never turn back.

The truth of the matter was that the two Walister men could work together, and Vyce would trust his back to none with more certainty than Denam, but both were terrified of the other's political stance. Vyce and Denam had the power to lead to the other's downfall, as neither would budge on what they believed. The men remained allied for two reasons, and no more: Catiua and a better future for the Walister. If Denam sought unity and peace for all of Valeria, 'twas fine with him, and there was no more worthy dream, but that was not _Vyce's _goal. Vyce was not so lofty to believe he could change the country on his own. He wanted the Walister to be treated equally, not despised for their beliefs or ostracized because they refused to submit to the Bakram or Galgastani. He did not wish to be forced to live alongside them, even if as equals. Let the Walister live with other Walister, the Bakram live with Bakram, the Galgastani with other Galgastani. More importantly, and his true goal, was that Vyce did not wish for any people to live under the rule of the nobility. To put Catiua on the throne would interfere directly with his beliefs, for as fair of ruler she might eventually be, so long as Lodis was not involved, once again the basest of men would have to serve others before themselves.

Vyce knew that Denam despised him for his stubborn refusal to accept his argument the greater battle for Valeria; neither would admit it, but the gulf between them existed because they no longer shared the same dreams. They both wanted Lodis from their island, to be sure, and they wanted the Regent to step down so that the country could stop the continued civil war, but where Denam sought recovery for all, Vyce's goals were simpler. If he must work with the Bakram and Galgastani to ensure peace for the Walister, he would, but he did not wish to live with them. He was not the only Walister who felt such; many of the young men and women he served with respected the Galgastani and the Bakram and believed they should live in the way they chose, but were still not comfortable putting aside old hatreds to live in the same cities as they. All Vyce had ever known was a hatred for the other clans, much of which was perpetuated by his father more than culture, and he could not force such ingrained beliefs to fall away so easily. Denam sought to tear down boundaries between clans, like Dorgalua once did, but Vyce still wearily stood behind the walls, cautious and hesitant to cross them, but accepted the presence of doors that allowed access both in and out. Vyce, too, did not support Dorgalua's and the Liberation Front's idea country for one people. Who were these "one people?" The Walister, and likely the Bakram given their smaller numbers, would be the cultural sacrifice to create the "one group." Was it not possible to have all three groups, separate, but not forced to live under one name or religion? The ideal for "one people" was just as much a destruction of their livelihood and culture as living under Lodis would be. Vyce wanted peace, but he did not want unity; the Walister wanted acceptance, but he did not wish for it to be forced. Most of all, he wanted equality without having to sacrifice personal beliefs. Denam would, and continued to, call him a child for his stubbornness, and Vyce had thrown it back at him, both idealistic in their own way. No matter who won the war, someone lost – and that 'someone' was more than likely the Walister.

"Vyce, go prepare yourself for our meeting." It seemed Denam had finished his work for the day as Vyce heard the other man rustle around in what he assumed was the organization of the parchments on the table. Vyce hesitantly turned around from his place in the warm window and saw that Denam stretched, arms above his head, before he released the breath he held in. The commander turned and nodded in dismissal to Vyce, as if he fully expected him to leave and come back later. Rhime would be almost a half-day's walk away, and Denam had not told him of their missive earlier in the day; they would need to get an immediate start if they wanted to arrive before the sun fell given the time.

"I _am_ ready." Vyce frowned and wondered what Denam expected of him. He had already eaten the midday meal and his clothes were perfectly acceptable, his weapons on a belt around his waist, and his boots comfortable and worn enough for extended travel. Were they to go incognito? Stealth? Few would recognize Vyce, as he was not nearly as prominent of a political figure as Denam, even if he did hold popularity within the Walister. Unlike Denam, who often remained armored as a formality and in case of emergency, Vyce did not need to change his clothes to armor unless he was certain he would go into battle. He was armed, but also comfortable and he preferred to remain that way. Admittedly, he would need to prepare himself a pack for travel if they were to spend the night in Rhime, perhaps with some food and water and an extra pair of clothes and undergarments, but that took no more than five minutes and a short trip to his chambers.

Denam stared at his friend for a time with that annoyed look that Vyce knew signified he was being evaluated and very likely would be at the butt of some harsh words of reprimand, but to his surprise, Denam just chuckled and turned away, back into his private quarters. With some annoyance, for both Denam and Catiua always continued to harass him about his appearance, Vyce walked over to the table and leaned on it, arms propped against the wood. He could barely hear it, but he knew Denam rustled around and likely worked to procure some suitable clothing for their later meeting. His eyes turned to the side and were almost drawn to the parchments Denam had, once again, left out, as if they asked to be read. _No. _Vyce controlled himself, he had already tested his friend's trust one, and, though he had learned much from it, he had no need or desire to do so again.

"Only us?" Vyce called rather loudly out towards Denam in his room in attempt to distract himself from the direction his mind wandered. To his surprise, a moment later, Denam poked his head out of his room and frowned, finger over his lips and hissed for silence. He was still completely clothed and it looked almost as if he had not made any progress despite the time he had to pick through his wardrobe.

"Hush! I can hear you without your yells. The meeting is secret, as few as possible are to know of it. Part of the agreement was our escorts are limited to two each, and I've chosen you as one of them." Vyce shrugged off Denam's reprimand, but understood secrecy's necessity. 'Twas perhaps a bit overconfident of him, but he had come to expect Denam's trust in that he would always be alongside him in personal issues. Vyce would give his friend the same respect, they had always complimented each other fairly well, a trait that remained even in battle. Vyce worried more about who else Denam trusted enough to bring as a third, for Vyce could think of no one. Vyce was unsure if he could kill two highly ranked Lodissians, no matter his skill, if Denam had to deal with their Commander, the third member of their entourage would need to be very skilled.

"So who else comes? More importantly, who is coming to meet us? Certainly not Tartaros."

"Tartaros will not come himself." Denam was absolutely confident of that, and Vyce could think of no reason to disagree. A shame, that, with Tartaros's throat cut, they could have ended the war then and pushed the Lodissians out with little extra bloodshed. "I believe Balxephon will treat, given. . .particular evidence" Denam's voice quieted, as he returned to his chambers and rustled about. From the muffled tone of his footsteps, Vyce could tell he had removed his armor and likely stripped off his outer shirt so that he could change his clothes. He obviously had no intention of elaborating on what 'particular evidence' was, and Vyce resisted the urge to question him about it. He had gotten the point before – Denam did not like Balxephon, but apparently they had communicated in the past beyond in battle. "'Twill be difficult to say how many of rank they'll send, but even the lowest of Loslorien is very skilled." Denam continued. Vyce could think of no reply and instead remained silent. The commander's footsteps were the only sound for a time, but he did hear a wind against the window. It seemed that the bright, warm sky had cooled a bit with the wind; perhaps the long trip on foot would not be so bad.

Vyce, bored, looked over the table for his empty cup he drank from during their midday meal. To his pleasure, it remained on the table in front of the place he had sat in for their earlier meal and Vyce stretched over to grab it and pour water for himself, with little better to do than wait as Denam prepared himself. As he sipped it, the only sound that kept his mind from its wander toward the parchments was the bird cries, which seemed to come back alongside the wind, and Denam's paces. After a time, the commander finally replied and, as he did so, he walked back into the meeting room, half dressed. His hair was slightly in disarray from the removal of his clothes, and his shirt and trousers were more expensive than he or Vyce had ever worn in Golyat, but otherwise Denam looked the same as he always did. Vyce felt more comfortable around his friend when he was armored than in the fancy formal clothing that would suit nobility. "I thought to take Olivya, given her rank in the Order. She will also provide adequate support." Denam did not bother to glance over to Vyce, who continued to remain quiet. He picked up the parchments beside Vyce on the table and organized them before he walked back into his chambers with a shrug. "I'd bring Arycelle and keep her behind as defense, but you above all know how impetuous she can be at times. I fear she may lose control, even if she knows it's a ploy."

Vyce agreed; Arycelle was often too irrational to bring to a secret meeting with Lodis. On at least one occasion the skilled woman's stubbornness had been more of a detriment than a boon. "The Xenobians?" Vyce asked. Olivya was not a woman he was particularly fond of, nor did he trust her to watch Denam and his backs. A Sibyl was no warrior. She would need protection far more than she would protect them. Even the Xenobians, foreigners, would be preferable to the Bakram noblewoman. He doubted the woman had picked up a weapon to defend herself in her life. There were a half-score of others he would name before Olivya, ones more skilled, ones Vyce trusted, but he decided not to push it. They had to be careful with who they brought, for some of their friends would act as 'traitors' alongside Vyce and 'betray' Denam when the commander announced his loyalty to the Princess. As far as Vyce was aware, they had not completed their list of allies, but there were certain Resistance members that Vyce could absolutely see not acceptable to bring to parley with Lodissians. 'Twas true that Olivya was a member of the Order; Denam had a point that one as influential as she would act as a strong support for the truthfulness of their alliance and make the meeting more believable, even if she was not as valuable in battle.

"They remain as they always have been: Neutral. I cannot bring them to an official meeting between Lodis and Valeria." Vyce frowned and placed his emptied cup of water down on the table. He did not care if he offended Lodis or Xenobia, but that was only one of the many differences between Vyce and Denam. In truth, his acceptance of political motivation and relationships was what made Denam a better commander, in the end. Vyce might be more popular with the commons for his bluntness, but Denam could work his way around politicians and their schemes, even if he did not wish to do so.

"So nothing has changed." Vyce was not sure if he was pleased or upset about Xenobia's continued neutrality. Certainly, it benefited him that Xenobia continued to remain to the side, for he did not support their interference in Valerian politics. On the other hand, they were staunch allies, yet they refused to move against Lodis – a mutual enemy. Vyce just knew they waited to pick apart Valeria's organs, just as Lodis would, if the island fell.

With Denam lapsed into silence and dressing in his chambers, or whatever else he needed to do to prepare - for he looked well dressed to Vyce, the Walister's thought fell onto the more important matter: their meeting and what Denam sought to pursue. From what Vyce had been told, if all went well, Lodis would be truly neutral and not assist Brantyn or attack their flank if they decided to assault Heim. The truth of the matter was that the political situation was almost identical to when Denam and he had joined the Resistance, with the main difference being the Walister's strength and the Galgastani's weakened position, Lodis above the Bakram and Resistance, a hunter who would pick apart the weakened victor, be it Bakram or Resistance. Galgastan dealt with its internal issues on its own, the Walister would soon be split by their own morals and, in the backdrop, Lodis remained on its perch, the Resistance at their mercy. The short-lived southern unity was gone; the most they could do was hope Catiua's presence would preserve some of it and strike down the Bakram. He almost wanted to throw the chaos into Denam's face: The sacrifice at Balmamusa had meant _nothing. _There was no justification for the Walister deaths. In a surprise bout of anger at the vivid memory of the screams, the fire and pain, Vyce opened his mouth to speak, yet the words never came; Denam knew his mistake, he wore it quietly in the rare moments he allowed his weakness to show. Vyce could rub his victory about all he wanted, but 'twould serve no purpose beyond a desire to inflict pain. Instead, Vyce spoke up, more to himself, but was curious if Denam had any reaction to his thoughts; if he could not speak such hateful words, perhaps he could drive his point home with some subtlety. "Lodis will be on the sidelines of our civil war, just as they were before. I suppose 'tis better than an active stance."

"I plan to convince them to abandon Brantyn entirely, which leaves Heim for the taking." Vyce raised an eyebrow at Denam's confidence. Surely he did not have the bartering power for that, yet he said such certainty, as if he knew he would succeed. Was this Denam speaking, or the commander, who put on the strong front to hide his insecurity? From their place in separate rooms, Vyce couldn't tell. Not that Vyce disapproved, for it sounded exactly like something he wished for. What worried him was Denam's utter assurance on the subject.

"Careful, Denam. That sounds dangerously similar to what I would say." Vyce held back his amusement; 'twas not often he had the chance to scold Denam. "Next you'll speak of how you wish to see the Lodissians hanging from Phicoch's parapets."

Denam walked back into the meeting room, this time he looked fully prepared and even carried a small sack over his shoulder, which he placed on the table. "As soon as we've the numbers, Heim will fall. _Then_ we deal with Lodis." Denam looked at Vyce with an unreadable expression. He knew _that_ look; it meant Vyce had said something that offended him yet had no intention of telling him what. Had they been a few years younger, Denam would have held the grudge in and let it seethe, much like Catiua, but he was older, and bolder, and was more willing to speak his disapproval – to all but his superiors, it seemed. Instead he bit out his retort as he walked past, towards the entrance to the meeting room. "Careful, Vyce," he mimicked Vyce's earlier words, tone dry "you sound dangerously doubtful of my allegiances." Denam pushed the door to the meeting room open, to the shock of the two guards outside. Vyce could barely hear his quiet orders. "Send for Sibyl Olivya immediately, she knows why I summon her." The Knights looked somewhat confused, but nodded. Vyce could hear one run off in the distance to see Denam's order through.

"They will not be pleased when we revoke our end of the agreement." Vyce swiftly changed the subject as Denam turned back around, door closed behind him. Vyce spoke the worry that had plagued him for the last three days. After the first meeting where Denam revealed his fool strategy, Vyce had spent long hours in thought as to how he could deal with the situation and it had not been long before he realized that Denam's plan was solid in the immediate future, but quickly fell away into an area that was both unpredictable and risky – far too much so for either of them to be comfortable with. Vyce had not had the time to pursue conversation with Denam on the subject, but given they would leave soon, apparently much sooner than Vyce thought if Denam summoned Olivya, he felt 'twas time to bring up the most important issue: _If, _and 'twas a large 'if',they were able to persuade Catiua to their side once again, and given she and Denam's tenuous relationship Vyce didn't know how possible that was, what would they do about Lodis? Denam claimed the Empire would remain neutral, but once the Resistance took Heim, both men were at a loss as to how to push them out, permanently. They would have the numbers with the Bakram behind them and could remove them by force, but Vyce worried they would return. 'Twas true they had been summoned by Brantyn and they had no reason to be on the island after he stepped down, but the Walister man doubted Lodis would give up possible territory so easily. _"_If we banish Loslorien, what is to stop the Holy Empire from sending their entire force onto our island?"

"We will kill them all." His voice was so casual, so capricious that Vyce's mouth dropped open. Denam's bluntness rivaled his own and he almost felt the urge to scold the commander for it, just as Denam always did to him. Denam did not seem to care about Vyce's shocked reaction as he walked past him to stand at the window Vyce had been at earlier. His fingers clenched against the edge of the window as he spoke, impassioned. "For Golyat, for those who have died at their hand, and for the entirety of Valeria, I will kill every Commander, Loslorien or no, who stands in the way of peace until they submit before us and sign a treaty of non-interference, beyond, perhaps, trade agreements." He had _that_ tone again. The one he used to rally people to his side, as he if tried to be noble honorable even in the face of uncertain odds. It meant he was stubborn and would not stand down. Vyce was not amused; he could hardly believe what he heard from his friend's mouth. For one who usually so rational, Denam's fantasy was out of place.

"That is just childishly idealistic." Vyce spat out, not sure what else there was to say. If Denam thought Valeria had the strength to push away the entire Empire, Vyce truly would abandon his friend to his madness. To Vyce's surprise, he heard light laughter, barely audible, but it was a chuckle nonetheless. Vyce turned from his position against the table and saw an unprovoked, small smile on his friend's features from the side, hidden as he looked out the window, but a rare true one, an expression he hadn't seen for scales – not since before Balmamusa, nay, maybe even before Golyat. It almost made him look young again, as it lightened the firmly-set lines that were his features.

"I'm amazed you took it so seriously."The commander's voice held mirth. Denam had spoken. . .in jest? Vyce could hardly believe what he heard. He blinked as Denam turned to meet his gaze, which only seemed to amuse his friend more. Vyce wondered how he could say such nonsense at an imperative time; they had precious few hours left and all Denam could do was talk about murdering Lodissians in place of actual discussion on a problem that would be very real in the near future? At any other point, Vyce would have been thrilled to discuss his many plans for maiming and causing pain the Loslorien commanders, but instead he seethed, even if he knew his friend attempted to lessen the tension between them, it only served to trouble him more. Denam shook his head and turned back to the table, already bored by the sight outside the window, and sat down at the chair at the end with a deflated sigh. He lazily placed his arms across the sack as and stared at Vyce, who remained leaning against the table. Vyce stood rigidly in his spot for a moment at the unspoken order for him, too, to sit just because he did not want Denam to get the idea that he could order him about, until Denam tapped his fingers against the table in a manner that perfectly mimicked Catiua's annoyance, all the way down to body language and a subtle tilt of the head. With his own sigh, the captain relented, only because Denam would not, and walked over to the chairs across from his friend and sat down with little care to manner or grace. As Vyce made himself comfortable by stretching his arms over the nearby chairs and crossing his legs as he leaned back, Denam continued their earlier discussion, much more stiff and professional than his friend. "The Lodissians care little for what happens on the isles. We are pointless, little more than objects to walk over." He paused, as if he hesitated to speak more. Vyce made note that Denam had very swiftly turned the subject away from Vyce's insecurity on the subject of the future. _Damn him._

"How do you know this? It seems to me as if Lodis wants to see us torn apart from the inside and feast upon our remains. Valeria is yet another stepping stone of their path to conquest." Without another word, Vyce leaned over the table and took the cup he drank from earlier. He ignored Denam's glare, he always got like this whenever Vyce didn't follow whatever table manners he was supposed to, and poured himself some more of the water. He wished Denam would have sent for some wine when he called for Olivya; they both desperately needed it.

"Father told me." Denam voice was quiet and Vyce looked up immediately from his water, cup still raised to his lips. For that matter, what ever did Lodis want with Prancet? They went out of their way to steal him away, according to both reports and Denam. The commander had never spoken of the issue to him, beyond that his father had joined the Great Father and that he had confirmed that Catiua was Dorgalua's daughter for the Lodissians, though Vyce had a suspicion that Olivya knew the 'how' and 'why' that Denam refused to tell. The Walister might have to press the Sibyl for some information while they had some time together later, since Denam knew more than he let on - as always, curse him. The look on his friend's features told Vyce that Denam did not wish to speak on it more. Denam's voice grew quiet, all of his previous warmth and good humor gone and replaced by sadness."As he lay dying he spoke of 'Dorgalua's Legacy' and how 'twas not Catiua, but a great power. We must stop Lodis from retrieving it at all costs. Furthermore, as you'll recall from Warren's tale, the Dark Knights have the Xenobian blade."

Vyce's gaze darkened; as expected, Denam planned to use the blade as a way to increase relations with the country; 'twas easy enough to draw the conclusion of what Denam sought. Vyce would have no part in it; he already agreed to one of Denam's reckless adventures, he refused to take part in another – one that would only cause Valeria to be ruled by Xenobia. As if they were any better than Lodis! "You seek to steal the blade back and earn the favor of Xenobia then, in case Lodis decides to attack."

"Aye." Denam seemed pleased that he did not have to explain his plans. Vyce kept his expression carefully neutral, so that Denam did not suspect he knew more than he let on. "When we force Lodis out, we will have precious months, years – perhaps – to unite our people and prepare. The Xenobians will have no choice but to assist us if we, too, aid them. If Valeria is united, possibly with foreign aid of our new allies, Lodis will be overwhelmed and pushed back. It is time we need, more than all else. We must push back Loslorien and recover ourselves as best we can before Lodis continues their search for whatever 'Dorgalua's Legacy' is." It seemed Denam had not strayed from the earlier subject after all. Vyce felt a bit uncomfortable about how he had jumped to conclusions about his friend's avoidance of their Lodissian dilemma.

The commander's plans explained, Vyce's discomfort faded away into anger and the Walister placed his cup back down on the table before he could spill it. Denam's plan stood entirely on the backs of the Xenobians. All it took was a few words of 'we've no designs on your isles' to gain Denam's trust, it seemed. Vyce did not believe it for a minute. Sword or no, Xenobia sought to use Valeria. This was a battle the natives must fight for themselves. Vyce hissed and pounded his first on the table; Denam shook his head, as if he expected Vyce's next word. "Just as Brantyn, you would place our future on the shoulders of others. Who is to say Xenobia will not attempt the same as the Holy Empire?"

"I do not know." Was the commander's quiet admission; Vyce lapsed into immediate silence and almost felt bad that he had ruined the warm mood and caused Denam to relapse into his personal darkness. Denam would never admit that he did not know something unless it truly caused him despair. Vyce's hostility drained away, the emotion no more than a brief droplet in the greater tide, but the anger remained. His friend risked so much; he knew that Denam would never give up one oppressor for another, Lodis for Xenobia and would fight against the Xenobians, even if they were his friends, if he must. Vyce had again acted out irrationally; Catiua would have had a fit if she saw it. Unfortunately, Vyce had no idea on how to go about solving their issue himself, so to antagonize his friend was pointless. "If we are lucky, with Catiua on the throne, Lodis will not move again at all, as they supported her rise to power. All I know is that somehow we must persuade Lodis to leave these isles and never return. How to do this is a question none but their High Priests and leadership could answer." Vyce nodded in agreement, but Denam paid no heed. Instead the commander seemed to organize his sack. The man leaned across the table and pulled the inkwell and quill towards him. He had earlier taken away the parchment to his room, so he only had the other tools to collect. He stopped the top of the inkwell cautiously and placed it, alongside the quill, into a tiny sub-pocket within his pack so that it would not dirty his clothes in case it leaked. Denam spent another moment looking through the sack and made sure everything was in order before he seemed satisfied with the results of his preparation. The two men were silent for a time, their breaths, and the pleasant breeze that blew about outside. Vyce focused on the calmness around him, for as soon as Olivya arrived, his world would be tense once again and he would have to leave for Rhime to what might well possibly be the last night of his life, if Lodis betrayed them. If they did not, he would still aid Denam inadvertently in the assistance of his sworn enemies. He could not reject the present, for who was to say they two would have a time together like this again? After the Denam's announcement, which would occur as early as tomorrow, they would see each other on peaceful terms, officially, when they were dead and were with the Great Father, or after Heim fell. From the peaceful look on his friend's features, which had overtaken the darker look he temporarily wore earlier, it seemed Denam shared Vyce's thoughts but he still did not look over to him – but he did not have the chance to, as there was a quiet, almost shy, knock on the door. There was the last member of their doomed trio, it seemed.

"Enter." Denam called. The door opened slowly, pushed by the Knights outside who constantly guarded Denam's private chamber. The Bakram Sibyl smiled and nodded her thanks as she entered. Unlike Vyce, and likely on Denam's order, she had chosen new attire for the day; her blue clothing that marked her of the Order replaced by a simple darker blue dress that was commonly worn by Walister women, as well as a small leather sack that she carried across her shoulder that Vyce assumed held her personal belongings. She probably went into town to buy it. Her hair was pulled back in a braid and in her arms was a large basket. When she saw Denam, she smiled, but when her eyes fell onto Vyce the smile changed, it was less open and more cautious. _Wonderful. _He had to deal with another one of Denam's type, who always treated everyone fairly, but held judgments back, secretly. Denam, and likely the woman, would never openly speak negatively of a companion, no matter how they deserved it.

"Denam. . ." Her voice trailed off, Vyce noticed the lack of title and internally made note to question either of them on their informality, for there were very few people that Denam usually spoke so informally with. She glanced quickly over to Vyce before she stumbled over her words. "And, ah, Sir Vyce, pleasant day to you."

"Well met, Olivya. Thank you for coming on such short notice."  
>"Vyce." was his cool reply. He wanted no 'Sir' attached to his name.<p>

Denam and Vyce spoke at the same time. Vyce did not want any of the false respect and formality that Olivya showed to others, nor did he seek a title that held no meaning. She was Bakram – he doubted she truly respected any but the nobility, save perhaps Denam. This was the first time he saw Denam and Olivya interact, but his friend was just as oblivious towards Olivya's obvious smitten attraction as he was to Catiua's forceful, single-minded affection. Vyce shook his head; Denam just seemed to attract Bakram women, it seemed, from that one Liberation Front girl in Rhime, to Catiua – who Vyce cautiously admitted was Bakram – to the Sibyl and her sister, Sherri.

Denam smiled and stood and walked over to a chair across from Vyce. He took the basket from the arms of their guest and carried it over to the table, where he placed it down in the center. Vyce could admit it was rather . . .sweet that she had chosen to bring a basket full of food for their journey, he would not have been so thoughtful, neither would Catiua, most like. Denam pulled out the chair for the Sibyl, who smiled and blushed as he pushed it in for her as she sat. A grand show, all of it. Vyce did not have the patience for such trivialities. Women could care for themselves, they did not need a man to do what they were perfectly capable of on their own. Had Denam not learned _anything _from Catiua? He almost pitied Olivya; 'twas not that Denam treated her any differently from any other female, but the Bakram woman seemed so enamored that she did not care either way. Neither Vyce nor Olivya spoke as they awaited Denam to continue. Vyce saw the way his friend's mind worked; he attempted to gather the strength he needed to make a difficult declaration.

"I believe I've discussed with both of you our plans for the evening." Olivya nodded and Vyce gave Denam a look that said _get to the point_. "Our trip to Rhime is a secret – none will know." Denam pointedly looked at Olivya. Vyce had no one in particular he would tell, but Olivya was close with her sister and father. Olivya gave a confident nod in return. "While I do not expect battle, we can never be too prepared. Olivya, I trust you've enough herbs and flowers to keep Vyce alive and your power filled?" Again a nod. His time as captain, and then commander, had made Denam extremely strict about supplies and preparation. If Vyce left him on his own, he would likely spend the next hour listing off possible outcomes of their meeting and what 'may' be necessary.

"If you've done anything similar to Olivya to what you've done to me, we already know the issues. Denam, we simply await your word to march." Said man frowned at Vyce, but looked over to Olivya for her thoughts. To Vyce's surprise, the Bakram woman nodded lightly in agreement, it seemed Denam had lectured her extensively as well. Vyce wondered how his friend had time for it all, for the commander had spent hours upon hours planning with him. Denam looked somewhat deflated, but he nodded in acceptance that the two did not need to be told what was expected of them. "Very well. Any questions?"

"What happens after? I know we go to speak about Catiua, but father and sister expressed their worry about Lodis and the situation after we deal with Brantyn." Vyce had no questions, he had asked Denam everything he needed to know already, but apparently he had not been quite so elaborate with Olivya. She, and the rest of those Denam had trusted with information – he could count the number on two hands – seemed to have the same worries that Vyce felt. Denam closed his eyes, likely frustrated because he and Vyce just had the discussion little more than ten minutes before.

"If you're worried I will sell Valeria to Lodis, you needn't be." His brusque reply was suitably subtle, and Vyce knew immediately that he had not told Olivya, or many others, the full extent of their plans. 'Twas better that way, for it needed to be as realistic as possible. What worried Vyce more was how Denam planned to do after Lodis left the Isles; what he did was political suicide and everyone knew it. Catiua was not an experienced commander and Vyce worried how she would deal with war – if it need come to that.

"We know you won't, but. . ." Olivya could not look at Denam, but her expression was unreadable. Her passive face was in odd contrast to her usually warm smile, one minute she was calm and confident and the next she was shy and introverted. The woman continued to send mixed signals and Vyce would not get a proper grasp on her personality; he would need to examine the Sibyl when not around Denam to properly judge her.

"Are you two ready?" Denam swerved the subject away from any further questions that fell along that line, somewhat similarly to how he had with Vyce earlier. The captain held back his amusement, for 'twas Denam who wanted them to ask in the first place.

"Yes." Olivya nodded, the firmness returned, as if the earlier worry had never been there at all.

"I would not have come this morning was I not prepared." Vyce spoke at the same time as a Sibyl. He had not known when he arrived earlier in the day that the treating would occur so soon, only that Denam wanted to discuss it with him. Vyce would have liked to have said he was prepared for what was thrown at him, but those early morning marches always killed him - so he held back his brazen 'I'm always prepared' if only to prevent a snide comment from his friend.

Denam pushed the chair out from behind him and stood; no more words were needed, they had plenty of time to discuss anything further on their trip to Rhime, which would take a few hours of travel at a normal pace. The captain did similarly and pushed his chair in as Denam assisted Olivya with the same 'chivalry' he did when she entered. Vyce turned and walked towards the door, hand instinctively grasping around his belt for his weapons and anything else he might need.

"Wait!" Olivya called loudly. Vyce turned back towards the woman, who stood near the chair where she had been only a moment before. She had a firm look on her features.

"Hmm?" Denam's reply held a subtle annoyance that Vyce only recognized because he had known his friend for so long.

"Did you not say we are not to be recognized?" Olivya demanded. Vyce knew _that _look far too well. He took two steps towards the door in a defensive maneuver. Perhaps this Bakram woman was more like Catiua that he had given her credit for. The look the Sibyl had on her features was one that told Vyce and Denam that she thought their appearance was inappropriate. Vyce could not particularly disagree; he looked no different than he normally did – if anyone bothered to recognize him at all – and Denam just looked informal, despite the quality and style of his clothes. The commander saw the body language as well and shared a look with Vyce before he replied cautiously.

"Is there a problem?" Vyce turned back around and pushed his way through the doors. As he did so, he heard Olivya rustle through her small leather pack. He knew what came next for Denam and he wanted nothing to do with it. As the door slammed shut behind Vyce and he stalked down the hallway towards his room to prepare a satchel for his journey, Vyce only had one thought on his mind:

_Good luck, Denam_.

* * *

><p>"Leave it be, Vyce."<p>

The Walister man did nothing more than grunt in response to the way his friend scolded him. 'Twas revenge, he supposed, for leaving Denam to his fate at Olivya's hands. When they had finally reached Rhime and checked into their rooms, one for Denam and Vyce, one for Olivya, Olivya had immediately walked into the males' chamber as if she was as entitled to it as they and had pulled Vyce to the side. Denam had only watched with a sadistic smile on his features as she brushed his bangs down from their normally-comfortable position above his forehead. Vyce played with the ends of his bangs as they fell near his face. He probably looked far too much like Denam for his own good; at least their coloring was different. What was it with women and hair?

Their trip to Rhime had been relatively uneventful. Vyce was not comfortable enough around Olivya to speak freely, and neither Olivya nor Denam were talkative by nature, so they had remained quiet for the long walk other than a few comments in regard to the weather or possible threats of wildlife or bandits. What had started off as a beautiful bright day through the morning and midday had quickly turned sour by the late afternoon, just an hour or so after they left Phidoch and some four hours past midday. The sky had darkened and the earlier warm breeze turned into a chill wind that made even the normally cold-resilient Vyce shiver. Olivya had wrapped herself up in a cloak she had the foresight to bring, but Vyce and Denam had remained relatively uncovered as the rain started to fall. It had only been a nice mist at first, to counter the previous humidity, but it soon became a downpour that marked the wet months once again arrived. Denam and Vyce both had too much pride to complain about the troublesome weather, but they both knew Olivya was not as strong as them. At one point, Vyce had uncharacteristically offered to rest for a time under a large tree, but Olivya had remained steadfast and refused, much to the Walister's surprise. She was a hardier woman than he gave her credit for, but it seemed she simply did not often show it.

Denam and Vyce's packs were well oiled leather so that the rainwater would not permeate them, fortunately, and the trio had spent their first moments in their rooms, drenched and in foul mood from their prolonged exposure to the storm, changing their clothes and warming themselves by their fires. The Inn was quite expensive, and the shared room between Denam and Vyce was far nicer than the house he had shared with his father in Golyat. The fireplace had quickly been started by the patrons and as soon as they were alone, their clothes were remove and laid out in front of it to dry. Large, bright green and yellow rugs covered the floor and there was a table that fit some six people in the central chamber. There was only one bed, and both were far too old to sleep in the same bed any longer like they had a few times when they were very young. Denam would take it; Vyce was perfectly content to sleep on the couch, near the warm fireplace. When they were finally comfortable for the evening, Denam had called for an early supper and then requested that he be left alone; sometimes 'twas easy to forget that his friend was just as troubled by this as Vyce was. Vyce had chosen to nap for some two hours before Olivya finally entered – again, without the knocks! Did the woman's family not raise her to understand the concept of privacy? – and told the men the time had arrived.

If what Olivya had done to Vyce was bad, what she had done to Denam was worse. Once they prepared themselves after their rest, Olivya had spent a good twenty minutes on Denam's hair alone. Denam had accepted his defeat gracefully, well whipped by Catiua into obedience when it came to his appearance, as Olivya parted his hair to the side and brushed part of it back with precision. With Denam's stern features and constant frown, the style added at least 5 years to his appearance. The most Vyce had allowed Olivya to do was brush down his bangs, which he usually had back out of his forehead. Olivya had re-braided her hair, heavily soaked from the rain, and no longer carried her large basket, which she had instead left in her room. She carried a large satchel on her, which contained various herbs and flowers that would assist them in battle.

Vyce ran his fingers through his hair almost instinctively to push it back from his face. He was stopped by Olivya, who grasped at his arm with a glare on her features. The Walister man sighed at the demanding woman; 'twas easy to forget the Bakram was a Sibyl, but when she wanted to, she could easily show the leadership qualities that were demanded by those of rank within the church. Rhime was almost as black as pitch in the depths of the night; the moon was hidden behind the clouds and the torches that usually were on the city walls or houses were extinguished by the wind or rain or, at the very least, obscured from view by the multitude of buildings. Every once in a while, thunder would echo through the night, the only sound beyond the rapid patters of both the rain and the splashes of the trio's footsteps, but any lightning was too far away to be seen. Of the three, only Denam held a torch, large enough to illuminate the walkways under the eves of the buildings, but small enough to not seem out of place or draw attention to them. The guards, both city and the soldiers stationed by the Resistance, were infrequent enough on the cool night to care about a few civilians.

The three walked in silence and allowed Denam to lead them to the given location. As he was told, the church was small and appeared abandoned. It was located the central part of town, no closer to the north than the south, but on the far western side, near the wall that surrounded the city. It seemed ideal in location for a church, so it struck the Walister as odd that there were no inhabitants. Vyce's mind briefly flashed towards the attack on Rhime, when he and Denam had fought against one other, Resistance and Alliance. Neither of them had the strength to stop the Bakram and Lodissian assault then and 'twas likely the reason the church had no patron; the Abuna had been killed in the attack. Vyce saw a light glow from the windows, which signified the Lodissians had already made themselves comfortable and awaited the Resistance. Belatedly, Olivya seemed to notice and from his far right he heard her breath hitch in her chest as she missed a step. Reality seemed to sink deeply into them all at their actions; even Denam's step had slowed. As they reached the entrance, Denam doused the torch in the conveniently placed bucket of water nearby, likely placed by the Lodissians to keep knowledge of their presence at minimum. All three pretended the others did not exist and did their best to look away at nothing, each with their internal struggles.

Vyce knew he would need his greatest constraint for the evening. To both Denam and his own surprise, he had chosen to reject the wine offered during their supper. Vyce was not a pleasant man when under the influence of alcohol, much like his own abusive father, and likely would have lashed out. It did not serve to calm him, only cause him more anxiety. Vyce knew better than to risk the entire meeting on his erratic emotions; he would need to be at the peak of his self-control if he was to remain in the same room for a prolonged period of time with the Lodissians who had destroyed Golyat. It had been difficult enough when he and Denam treated with them under Leonar, when Catiua had snapped and spoken the thoughts they had all felt. Vyce had matured since then, and had focused on his internal discipline, but he still worried. Well, as Prancet once told him: the first step to solving a problem was to know it. He could fantasize about the deaths of the Lodissians if he must, but, for the future of the country and Catiua he would contain his disgust.

The hesitation was over in an instant as Denam pushed the door open without a knock. A foolish action, the commander should have let Vyce enter first in case an arrow awaited him. Vyce kept his hand on his weapon as the trio entered the warm church. The air was slightly smoky from the torches and the lit fireplace at the end of the central hallway. Vyce's eyes searched the room for the army he half-expected awaited them, but he saw nothing. From the shadows near the end of the hall were two forms – not three – and both rose as the trio wiped their boots and brushed any water from themselves. That the third of the Dark Knights didn't show himself worried Vyce; but the other two appeared relatively calm and both approached with their hands up as a sign of peace.

"Denam?" One spoke; he had dark skin and very short hair. He was not Lodissian by blood, no doubt, for his coloring, manner, and accent were exotic. He was well toned and, from his build and the light way he carried himself, Vyce could tell he likely used his fists. Vyce was not nearly educated enough in geography and history to tell where the strange man hailed from, but if he served Lodis, it likely meant his country had been overtaken by the Holy Empire, just as they attempted to take Valeria. The man was obviously sent by the Loslorien commanders as a subtle warning of what was to become of the islands.

"Aye." Denam took a step forward boldly. A dangerous move, given the unpredictable nature of the meeting, but it seemed that the Lodissians were just as nervous, as they took a step back in response to the commander's audacity. Vyce would have laughed at the absurdity of it all if the event not so serious. "I am he."

"Not entirely what I expected. . ." Was the foreigner's comment. The second of Lodissian duo, the one who remained silent and had not moved from his position behind the darker man, was a rather unremarkable man of pale skin, light brown hair, and a rather large nose. Vyce did not recognize him as anyone of rank and knew he was likely chosen for the same reason why Denam had chosen Olivya: for support.

"Please, follow me. Our Commander wishes to speak with you alone." The second man spoke and walked towards the back of the church with little more than a motion of his hand. Vyce, Denam, and Olivya followed his gaze; it seemed that there was a dark hallway in the right corner, through a door. Denam remained rigidly in place, caution across his features. The Lodissian wanted Denam to go alone into a dark room, where there were possibly a score of Loslorien Templars who awaited Denam's entry. _Not bloody likely!_

"You can't seriously expect-" Vyce bit out before he caught himself. Denam did not bother to give Vyce an accusatory glare, for he obviously felt the same way as the captain did.

"Your hesitation is understandable." The dark male spoke. The Lodissian at the doorway only seemed annoyed. "Take one of your companions and you'll see it safe, I will wait here with the other. Have the second return here when you've secured to premises as you see fit."

Denam's eyes narrowed in both acceptance and suspicion before he motioned for Olivya to follow. The Sibyl could not defend herself in one-on-one combat as Vyce could, she would be suited to staying with Denam and fighting beside him, if necessary. The second Dark Knight stood aside as Denam and Olivya passed into the dark hallway, out of Vyce's view, and their footsteps faded into the distance. Vyce grunted and turned towards his new companion; instead of speaking, the Walister walked to his right side and sat down on one of the pews, still in fine condition, as if it had only been abandoned recently. Vyce resisted the urge to pull out his weapon and instead kept his gaze firmly locked on the other man, in almost a single-minded obsession that blocked everything else out. Neither of them made a sound, but Vyce's hostility brought tenseness to the air that was only amplified by the echo of the rain against the church and the crackle of torches that kept the large room lit.

For almost a full two minutes the men remained in their positions, Vyce in a pew, and the Dark Knight leaned against the end of the chairs on the opposite side of the main walkway. The Walister knew he likely made the situation worse than it should be with his rashness, for it seemed the Dark Knights had been truthful, but he could not bring himself to relax when the Loslorien murderer was in the same room with him. He forced his breaths out, and focused on the back of the pew in front of him instead of the Dark Knight to his left as best he could. He knew his face likely held hostility and a dark glare, but he did not care. It felt almost an eternity later that their silent battle was interrupted by two pairs of footsteps. Vyce glanced up and saw that Olivya and the other templar had returned. Olivya gave him a small smile and a nod, to confirm Denam's safety. So, they had truly kept their word; 'twas only them – three and three. Vyce did not know how to react to that; he had half-expected betrayal given Loslorien's previous actions on the isles.

"Watch the entrance." The exotic Templar called to his companion, who entered behind the Sibyl. The Lodissian grunted his response, not pleased at the order, but also not one to deny it as he walked past Vyce. Olivya quickly glanced between Vyce and the other man as if she recognized their open hostility; in an act of unprecedented boldness, Olivya sat down to Vyce's left, in between him and the walkway. The Walister didn't know if he was imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard some quiet laughter from the direction of the Templar. Olivya's effect on him was subtle, but Vyce would have been a fool to deny it. She had a warm aura, one that calmed him and helped him regain some of the control over his rage he had desperately struggled to retain. She did not need to touch him, yet her collected manner and support was enough to bring on thoughts of Catiua. How different they were! Catiua would scold him for his actions, which usually only infuriated him more, but he would obey in understanding that she was right, yet all Olivya needed to do was sit beside him and it felt as if the anger dripped away.

"You are not nervous?" Olivya murmured to him. 'Twas meant to be quiet, not heard by their Lorlosien companions. Her quiet tone obviously got the interest of the man who sat across from them and the man watched them with curiosity. If Olivya was nervous, she was certainly a better actor than him, almost as good as Denam, as her face or body language did not reveal her emotions in the least.

"I'm terrified. I'm appalled." Vyce spoke quietly, under his breath, whispered low enough that his voice could not be heard above the pound of rain. Even a few scales before he would not have admitted to such emotions; the captain had slowly accepted that such fears were rational and when he showed them he was more likely to win allies to his side. To hide his fears distanced captains, commanders, friends, and family, just as Denam had learned – or perhaps, he _should_ learn but had not quite done so. Vyce would not become like Denam. He purposely raised his voice as he continued, with added spite and a sideways glance to the Templar, which told the foreigner that Vyce knew he listened. "I'm disgusted. No, I suppose I'm not nervous."

"Denam won't. . . " Olivya spoke quietly with a frown on her features. She played with the end of her braid as she looked down, her unease now apparent, even if she hid it from her expression. She sounded as if she tried to stand up for Denam, but her voice shook with quiet uncertainty. 'Twas better that way; if even their own distrusted Denam, as the Lodissians had no reason to believe there was a ploy. Perhaps Olivya even acted that way intentionally, but he found it difficult to believe a mere Sibyl would be so accomplished in the arts of political theatre.

"So you don't know what this is about, either?" To Olivya and Vyce's surprise, the Dark Knight spoke up from his lounged position. His features held a stern frown, as if he was as uncomfortable with the situation as the islanders. His tone was offhand, but Vyce knew 'twas an act, he was secretly just as worried about whatever this meeting meant as Vyce was. _How interesting._ "It's all quite the mystery, hushush and whatnot."

"They've not told you the details?" Vyce asked. His curiosity got the better of him, moreso than his distaste and anger, as he questioned the Templar. Denam and Vyce had mused on it earlier in the day – the Lodissians did not wish the Bakram to know of their movements, but even so, Vyce wondered why they did not even tell their upper echelons of their plans. Unlike Denam and Vyce, who plotted to remove Lodis from the isles in the only way they knew how, the captain did not know what Lodis sought to gain from the alliance with the Resistance beyond their continued neutrality and whatever they searched for on the isles that Prancet had revealed to Denam.

"Oh, I know the official story - the same one you do, most like. But what do they discuss? Balxephon does not often ask to speak in private." So Denam did speak with Balxephon, as his friend said he would.

"Sir, perhaps you shouldn't –" From the door, the Templar who acted as a guard called out. The exotic Templar frowned at his companion, as if annoyed at the disruption. He did not openly verbalize his demand for silence, but his body language spoke loudly enough. The pale Templar looked annoyed at the unspoken order and bristled in indignation, but remained silent, nose upturned in a condescending manner. The small exchange was short and subtle, but Vyce noted it, even if Olivya did not. Perhaps the open hostility within their ranks was one reason why the parley was not discussed within the soldiers of Loslorien; if those Balxephon trusted as companions could not get along, likely the conflict was rooted deeply within all of the Lodissians on Valeria. It made sense, after all that female commander Ozma had chosen to join Denam, what was to stop more of the Templars from abandoning their post? Perhaps Tartaros and Balxephon feared their internal own rebellion, just like the one Vyce was meant to propagate in the Resistance. The Walister captain made a mental note to discuss it with his friend later as something they could exploit.

"As far as we're aware, Denam is speaking about swearing an oath to the Princess." Olivya's tone was less unsure and more confident, as if she had regained herself. She looked up to meet the man's dark eyes as he spoke, to both Vyce and she. Vyce_ knew_ he hallucinated, perhaps from the stress, because he was _positive _he heard sadness at the Templar's next words.

"Is that what they call selling your island now?"

* * *

><p>The rain was getting worse.<p>

The foul weather seemed almost a mockery, one that well suited his mood. Denam and Balxephon had remained at the large table in the back room of the church in Rhime for what felt like hours. In truth, it probably had been that long, as each moment blended into the next, the tallow had greatly burned down on what had been a newly-bought light, and torches no longer blazed as brightly, which instead gave the room a faint glow rather than the bright illumination that had enveloped it when he arrived earlier. The fire still roared to Denam's left, but only because both Denam and Balxephon had taken care to continue to place new wood in it, perhaps the only thing both men could agree upon. They had remained alone in the room, their only companion an empty jug of water and the myriad of parchments on the table in-between them, filled with data, plans, and possible agreements, all discarded by the stubborn commanders who wrote them. The thunder had moved on, but the rain against the window became harder and louder; the sound only served to tense his nerves yet more.

If 'twas any consolation, the Lodissian across from him was equally annoyed at Denam's stubborn refusal to budge on issues that regarded the future of Valeria. No, there would be no Regent, no, Lodis would not be Valeria's sole trade partner, no, there would not be one established religion; the latter would only break down peace on the isles again and they both knew it. In truth, Denam had the disadvantage in almost every way; he was not a politician at heart and had never spent the time in debates. He could demand all he liked, and use flowery words to sway those to his side, but when someone older, more experienced at the art he had only just learned, faced him, the young commander stood little chance. Balxephon tore apart Denam's agreements to the point that the Bakram man had simply stopped trying to force his ideas and instead manipulated the Templar's to better suit him. The latter method seemed to work well, as he finally gained some ground against the elder man. Denam knew he would have to give at some point, to make the deal look realistic, but he was not going to let it occur any time soon.

"What do you mean by 'open' support?" _'Open and unconditional support of Catiua and Lodis'_ was what Balxephon had asked for. Denam played with the words in his head as he searched for any meaning. Unconditional was no issue when it came to Catiua, but the policy was vague enough when it came to Lodis that it allowed leeway on their part and none on his. An odd request, and quite possibly the most effective one Denam had to barter with and it had been introduced by Balxephon if he could find a way to work around it.

"I do not play with words. We've both had more than enough of that. You above all recognize Lodis lacks popularity on the isles. Your support will calm the people and ease the advent of the Princess." Denam almost laughed. By the time Denam was finished with the war, he was certain that Lodis would be more popular than he was, which said quite a bit about how he knew how he would be viewed. His people would hate him for his actions, so he wondered what the Dark Knight gained from Denam's open 'support' of Lodis. If Denam 'supported' something, the people would do exactly the opposite, and 'twould be a perfect way for him to get the country off easily from any oaths. Balxephon walked into the palm of his hand. . .

. . .Was what Denam wished he could think. In truth, the very thought of open 'support' of Lodis outraged him, no matter how his rationality told him that Balxephon had easily given him the best deal yet; for that reason alone had Denam not flat out refused the agreement. On the basest instinctual level, Denam was appalled he even thought on the matter, it made his stomach roll and he almost wanted to vomit. He would _never _support Lodis. Denam pressed his eyes closed as the silence dragged on between them; Balxephon had a look that spoke he knew he won and Denam refused to give him the satisfaction of meeting his satisfied smile. Denam shook; not even his greatest self-control could stop it. 'Twas not a sacrifice of the people and also did not forfeit the future of Valeria. All Balxephon asked was for his word, word that would be relatively meaningless in politics once the war ended. It should have been easy - it should have been an instant 'accepted.' More importantly, if he agreed, he betrayed not only his people, but his basest of beliefs – but if he did not agree, he would have to sacrifice some part of the well-being of the Islands. The Bakram man released a shaky breath; it had to be done; either Denam sacrificed himself and his morals or he sacrificed Valeria to Lodis. 'Twas no choice at all and yet he still hesitated. He cursed himself and demanded rationality: _it must be believable_. If Denam rejected an arrangement such as this, Balxephon would know that he had no true desire to treat. The commander had to break and give in at some point. The Bakram man finally opened his eyes, but he still could not meet Balxephon's victorious gaze.

"I admit, I see that this arrangement is. . .beneficial, however,-" Denam replied shakily, his tone wavered more than he wished to admit. If he accepted, 'twould be self-imposed exile. Once the war ended and Lodis was forced from Valeria, his people would loathe him – if they did not already. He knew what the Walister nobles said of him, he knew the commons already whispered that he was a traitor, and he knew the Galgastani rightfully called him butcher. Not even Catiua would be able to stem the hatred against him.

"I recognize your hesitation." To Denam's surprise, Balxephon's tone did not hold the arrogance he would have expected, and his expression had lost its satisfaction and was replaced by something akin to appreciation - gentle, if firm. He could hardly imagine the man as anything but impenetrable; that the Dark Knight even attempted to speak to him on a personal level unnerved the Bakram man.

"Pardon?" Denam was sure he misheard. Balxephon was most certainly not drawing the subject away from their debates, 'twas impossible.

"You feel you betray all you stand for: Your friends, your family, your beliefs, the way you've been raised." Denam could not stop his eyes from widening at the man's words. Balxephon read him like a book, yet he did not condescend. No, if anything his tone was empathetic. The harsh lines on his features had softened; either Balxephon was a good liar, which was no doubt true, or he understood Denam better than the Bakram would dare admit. The man had likely spoken to Catiua; she would have told Balxephon all of his weaknesses and what to say to garner a reaction or persuade him. "To act upon necessity, not these beliefs, that is what troubles you. You claim that you seek to minimize casualties and I've given you a way to do it."

Denam's mind immediately flashed to the memory of Balmamusa. Leonar had changed his life, and would forever be etched in his being and had brought upon the words that had changed his future, the one that had shattered the relationship between he and his friends: _We cannot win if we are unwilling to dirty our hands. _Yes, that was how he chose to live. He soaked himself in the blood of his both his own people and his foes. Was it not his turn to shed his own blood? He cursed Balxephon; the man used Denam's rationality, his own words, against him. Yes, he fought for his country, and yes, he claimed to fight to minimize casualties, but Leonar's voice again rang through him, an odd contradiction. Denam had been sent to treat with Lodis by Ronwey after Leonar refused –_If we place ourselves at the mercy of the Dark Knights, we betray everything for which our kinsmen died. – _how odd, that such a memory would come up. Denam had not hesitated then, under the orders of his Duke. He had certainly held distaste within for what Ronwey planned, yet Denam would have gone to Phidoch and relayed the missive, for the betterment of the Resistance had Leonar not interrupted him. He wondered what made his own decision so much different, certainly not much, only his perception of the world.

When Denam had first joined the Resistance, he had been so overwhelmed. He had thought himself experienced, but he learned how many others had been in the same position as he and how there were others with greater suffering than he and Vyce and Catiua. Leonar and Lanselot Hamilton had acted as his backbone, tutors, perhaps, in their own way, on how to act the 'Hero' he was named. Hamilton had seemed so strong, yet he had taught Denam that weakness was normal, and should never be rejected. Leonar had taught Denam duty and respect. During those first scales after Balmamusa, when Denam was lost in internal conflict within himself and had only followed orders because he despaired and could not accept what he condoned, the words of his mentors had molded him. He had lived only for his people then, as he would now.

As he steeled himself, Denam was amused. He was so melodramatic, almost as bad as Catiua at times. 'Twas not as if _truly _betrayed his people. He had no loyalty to Lodis, even if he must feign for a scale or two until Heim fell and Catiua was on the throne. He was not like Ronwey or Brantyn, who sought to use their power to further his own. He did not even seek neutrality with them, though he did get that from the alliance, he only wanted to see Catiua safe by his side once again. If his people thought him unfit to lead, he would gladly step down, even forfeit his life. _Death is the ultimate absolution _Leonar had once told him; perhaps he would yet see his old commander's words through to the end. In the end, none of it mattered; excuses were what he used in attempt to rationalize his actions. He still betrayed his beliefs and his people, no matter the reasons. Denam again clenched his jaw; he would never be finished if he continued these internal arguments, ones that went back and forth and made no progress save to trouble him more.

"You read me well." Denam forced the words out before he could stop himself with hesitation. He had already been silent for far too long and Balxephon was likely impatient. _Let him wait_ the back of his mind spoke, but Denam was not so rude to act on his baser instincts. Before his more instinctive distaste could well back up to the surface, Denam bit out, as impartially as he could "Yes, I understand. The agreement is beneficial for Valeria."

"We've all suffered at one point." To Denam's surprise, Balxephon did not nod, nor did he seem to approve of Denam's acceptance. He simply examined the young commander, a frown on his features. He made no attempt to respond to Denam's acknowledgement of their agreement. "I do not know what my brother has told you, but I take no pleasure in death." His words were carefully chosen, almost as if he meant to show Denam a softer side he had never seen as an enemy.

"You try to console me – but I've already agreed to your terms. Why?" He tried to force the subject of conversation back onto its previous track. Denam pressed forward most easily when he viewed Loslorien as enemies, not humans. What purpose did empathy serve him – more, why did Balxephon continue this odd game of his at all? Perhaps that was how all of war had become for him, numbers, not lives; mayhap that was why Vyce constantly scolded him. Balxephon had wronged Hobyrim and Ozma, he felt no pity for the man. Perhaps 'twas a bit hypocritical, for he had tried to make Arycelle understand his actions in Balmamusa the same way he heard Balxephon try to convince Hobyrim in Phidoch – the latter was not a conversation he was indented to listen to between the brothers, but he heard it nonetheless.

"Is your revolution any different than mine?" The Dark Knight ignored Denam's subtle cues and continued. This was not what he wanted to hear – not when he was already so conflicted from his decision. Sometimes what one wanted to hear not the same as what one _needed_ to hear; but which did Balxephon speak and why? Denam no longer heard the rain on the windows, his attention almost unnaturally, and entirely unintentionally, focused on the man at the other end of the table. "How many will despise the Princess? How many do not wish for the same unity you seek? Many are content with how the country is now – all save the Walister, in fact!"

Denam bit back his immediate, hostile retort. He was proud of his control and how flat, even annoyed, his voice sounded in his ears. "What. . .are you saying. . .? That I force them under my rule even if they do not wish it? Nonsense!" Deny it all he liked, Balxephon's words rang far too truly to him than he would dare admit. Vyce was proof that not all sought the same future as the Resistance did. Vyce and he could barely agree on politics that regarded the Walister, let alone the entire future of a country, and they only represented two of the factions within the already split Clan! Certainly, there were Galgastani who despised him, just as there were ones who supported him, just like the Walister. He remembered the fear and hatred on the looks on their faces as he sacked Coritanae in the name of the Great Father's judgment.

"No, of course not; you are exactly what the country needs. You stabilize them, give them the strength they do not have themselves. You must guide them to the rule that they do not know they want, one that is better for all the country." The conversation was desperately off course, but Denam belatedly noticed that Balxephon had started to write on a new parchment, likely the terms of their new agreement. The Lodissian's words again brought Leonar to mind; he had said exactly the same as he fell to the combined blades of he, Vyce, and Arycelle. The people would not rise up on their own, they could not; 'twas up to Denam to lead them, to act as their protector. As much as he did not wish it, there was more to it than that; Balxephon spoke truly – he thought of the Bakram; they were secure, happy, powerful, content with their lives. Obviously some despised Brantyn, such as the Liberation Front, but many enjoyed their power and were satisfied with their lives. Denam would be forcing them under his banner of 'morality' and his beliefs of the future, not necessarily the ones they wanted. Did that make him a dictator – or merely, as Balxephon said, a guide, to lead the people to a future that was best for them all? Even his father had requested him act as much, but that did not necessarily mean he acted on behalf of all in the country. Vyce's words, his constant and stubborn refusal to accept the unity Denam desired came back in force. 'Twould be a very long time before the Bakram, Galgastani, and Walister truly accepted each other.

The two were silent for a time, as Denam mused on Balxephon's words and actions. He wondered if Balxephon implied he, too, had only acted as a guide, just as Denam did. The Bakram man did not know if the Loslorien Commander spoke the truth, all he had was Hobyrim's word. Not that he did not believe Hobyrim, for he fully trusted the Swordmaster, but 'twould be the same as if a foreigner asked Vyce, but not Denam, about the events of Balmamusa. Denam did not like the directions his thoughts swayed and pushed them from his head, instead he focused on the heavy patter of rain, the crackle of the fire in the fireplace and torches, and the pleasant sound of Balxephon's quill along the parchment.

When the Lodissian finally finished he looked over it with a small satisfaction before he slid it over the top of the table to Denam. "Here we are, I've recorded our agreement. Please see to it that all is acceptable." Denam pulled the parchment to him, careful not to run his fingers across the still-wet ink. Denam quickly glanced over the words; it all seemed in order. Catiua was to be released into the care of Denam – not the Resistance, he noted the wording – and Lodis would remain neutral in the coming battle with Brantyn, though they would serve as a catalyst to help further spread Catiua's influence on the isles - through use of Shadows and manipulation of the masses, most like. In return, Denam had agreed to, as Balxephon put it, 'open and unconditional' support of Catiua and Loslorien's backing of the Princess. Vague, but Denam knew he was not in the position to debate it. He would also turn a blind eye to their "search." 'Twas all Denam could get out of him in regards to their goal, as 'search' had been the only way he described it. They had come to a particular trade agreement as well, but Denam could hardly deny that, for it benefited Valeria and was not anything that would damage relations with other countries, like Xenobia, as well as had offered the acceptance of a very small force of Lodissians who would always remain on the isles –not soldiers or priests, but merchants and civilians who would be permitted residence. Perhaps 'twas a subtle attempt to gain cultural power on Valeria, and the last thing the country needed was yet more ethnic clashes, yet he saw no issue with limited immigration, so long as 'twas legal and they followed the law of the land. Yes, all seemed acceptable. He wondered how upset Lodis would be when they learned his word had little meaning once Catiua was Queen – it almost sent a wave of satisfaction through him. Denam leaned over to his own inkwell and quill to sign on the indicated location at the bottom when Balxephon interrupted. "So Hobyrim decided not to tell you?"

The Bakram looked up from the parchment, quill in hand. It took him a moment to realize what the man spoke of; the commander had been so distracted that he had forgotten about that odd comment. "He did not know what you spoke of." Denam did not know if Hobyrim had spoken the truth when he said that, but Denam knew nothing more on the subject.

"He is a liar." There was venom in Balxephon's words, the first true emotion he had ever heard from the elder that evening. Denam raised an eyebrow but did not comment; the Bakram had been the one emotional earlier and did not have any right to criticize the anger of the Lodissian, even if he found it quite odd.

"I thought you meant to send some subtle message to him. 'Tis none of my business." Denam shrugged and looked back down at the parchment. He lowered the quill and signed his name, _Denam Pavel, _on the line. He pushed the parchment back across to Balxephon who spoke.

"Catiua will be brought to Rhime four days from now, as discussed. You will retrieve her alone." The Dark Knight looked down at the parchment and a frown appeared on his features, he did not bother to sign it before he pushed it back. "Sign it properly." Denam returned the frown; he _had_ signed it properly. Denam's father's name might well be Morne, but that was not how he thought of himself for most of his life; if 'twould stop complaints, a name was a small thing and he had no issue in rewriting it. Denam lifted the quill from the inkwell again before he was interrupted. "You were born on the twelfth of Windscale."

Denam blinked, confused. What did his day of birth have to do with anything? Especially one that was not correct. "Nonsense, my-"

"Do not interrupt." Balxephon's voice was low, quiet, as if he worried someone might hear. His tone was in direct contrast to his demeanor and mannerism throughout the rest of the evening. It set Denam on edge and he placed the quill back into the inkwell to listen to what the elder man had to say. "You were raised properly, it remains even in you now, for three years before the man you call 'Father' stole you from your bed."

"A fascinating and highly unbelievable tale." Denam would have laughed in the Lodissian's face had he not looked so serious - desperate, even. Olivya had said much the same to him only a few scales before, it seemed the Dark Knight sought to manipulate his emotions similarly. "I hope you've evidence to back up your claim."

"I'm pleased you asked."

* * *

><p>I ask that you not immediately shun the story because of my rather cliche 'plot twist' - I do not even consider it a twist at all, for it's simply being used to promote character development.<p>

As for Catiua, don't worry, she's coming soon.


	6. Thunder

This should come without question, but the key thing to keep in mind about this chapter, and this story in general, is narrator bias. What our characters see might not exactly be the truth.

Premature apologies for typos in this chapter. I got incredibly annoyed while proofreading and rewriting. I'll slowly edit it over the course of the next few days.

_**Thunder**_

* * *

><p>Olivya was tired. Even though she remained seated in the pew next to Vyce, and her head was alert and upright, the Walister could tell the woman was awake only through sheer willpower. Her eyes were wide open, the normal white tinged with red, but they blinked rapidly whenever they did not fall closed in a rare moment of weakness. Vyce glared at her, but she ignored the look - and everything else in the room for that matter. If the Bakram woman was intended to support him in case of an emergency he could not have her doze off! She was relatively worthless in her current state, a burden that Vyce knew from his time with Catiua that she desperately wished not to be. He elbowed the Sibyl in anger in attempt to wake the woman up and leave her pride undamaged when she realized how much of a hindrance she was – even if Vyce cautiously admitted that such a conflict with the Lodissians no longer seemed like a possibility. The Phoraena made with little more than a soft grunt as she looked over to Vyce and responded with her own look of annoyance, tinged with shame, but she sighed and acknowledged the Walister's unspoken message. The Bakram pushed herself up from the pew and, in attempt to wake herself, walked up and down the central pathway rapidly, her footsteps quiet, sound dulled by the soft leather of her boots.<p>

The Dark Knights, just as bored as Vyce was, watched her with some curiosity, but when they realized she meant no harm a moment later they went back to their business, namely: absolutely nothing and hoped they intimidated the lowly Islanders with their presence alone. Both of the foreigners had gotten bored and sat down in the pews on the other side of the path, Vyce noted the two sat at opposite ends and refused to speak with one another, which for some odd reason eased the tension that had earlier spread through the room – likely because it showed they were just as uncomfortable as Vyce was. Their conversation had helped, to some extent, even if the man had put some doubt about the commander's intentions into the steadfast Olivya. Vyce wanted to scold her; if she truly trusted Denam as much as she pretended to, she would have disregarded their words entirely.

"Ah. . ." Olivya made a surprised squeak, the only sound from the woman in more than an hour, and all eyes looked up at her in an instant. She had stopped her paces and backed away from the hall. 'Twas not until a moment later that the reason for her surprise was evident as the sound of armored footsteps echoed through the darkness in the front of the church. All eyes were on the front, hands on weapons, until the figure came into view. The Dark Knight Balxephon approached the exit, expression unreadable; he walked by Olivya without so much as simple acknowledgement of her presence. Vyce hadn't seen the man earlier, and the last time he saw the Lodissian was Phidoch, but he could tell the man was weary or troubled, possibly exhausted. Denam had put up a good fight against his demands, it seemed.

"We're finished here." The man spoke as he passed by his comrades. He did not bother to give them a glance, almost as apathetic towards them as he was to Olivya, and instead only motioned with his hand for them to follow. In equal silence the two Dark Knights pushed themselves up and fell in line behind their superior. Vyce did not move or take his hand from his dagger until the entranceway to the church slammed shut behind the trio, in which he released a long breath he had not realized he held. When Balxephon did not act friendly or respectful, as he had in Vyce's meeting when he had been with Leonar and Denam, he had a powerful aura that demanded submission, one that not even the Walister could deny. His departure was a relief on both his mind and body and he felt tension drain from his muscles, weary from their constant stress over the last hours. Vyce spared a glance at Olivya, who had not moved; the tallow and torches had long since burned down and because the Dark Knights had not bothered to re-light the torches, from the distance he could not make out her facial features.

Vyce walked over to the Sibyl and frowned as he watched her gaze, which remained on the doorway. Vyce followed it, but saw only the shadows of the night, not the second form both Resistance members expected. The two had been alone in that room for a long time, Vyce tried to stop his train of thought – but to not avail; perhaps Balxephon had gotten frustrated and killed the Resistance commander? Olivya stared at Vyce, as if she, too, shared the same fears. The woman looked more awake, her fear and nervousness had eaten away her exhaustion.

"Where's Denam?" She whispered. Vyce pushed the dreary image of a dead Denam, impaled by the man's spear lying atop a bloody table, from his mind; there was no point in panic, they would have heard a skirmish if there had been one. The two were simply tired and were on not nearly enough sleep, it stopped rational thoughts and brought forth fears in their place. "I hope he's all right. . ." Her voice turned wistful and she took a few cautious steps into the darkness, hands in front of her, to guide her and make sure she did not hit the walls or pillars in the darkness, which only seemed to expand around them by the moment. Vyce followed behind the woman with equal caution; there was no tallow or torches in the short hallway that led to the back room, but 'twas easy to see the end of the path, as the only source of light was from the room's open door at the end.

The room Denam and Balxephon treated was small and comfortable, if a bit warm. Unlike the central church area, the tallow lights and torches in the room had been snuffed out and the primary light source was the warm glow from the fireplace. The fire had died down and was little more than embers that gave off heat and a light red glow, but with the table's close proximity to it, Vyce could easily see the contents on top and throughout the room. Denam sat at the end of the table, back towards the door. The two circled around the table to face the man, his eyes down, hands on his forehead, fingers twined through his bangs. He did not react to either of their presences. Vyce examined his friend more extensively; he was unharmed, as far as he could tell, but Denam's eyes were pressed closed and his breaths were rapid as if in panic. His hands were stained by ink from the quill that was still in its inkwell nearby, alongside his personal sack that held his business belongings, and there were a few blank parchments around him.

"Denam?" Olivya whispered quietly and touched his shoulder. So Olivya was not only bold with the commander, but familiar enough that she dared touch him unprovoked – there were enough of the mysteries that surrounded her that he was positive that he would demand answers later - as he disliked her overt familiarity, previously something that only he, Catiua, or Prancet could have attested to. The commander still did not respond, despite the Sibyl's insistence and a light shake. Vyce wondered how badly the parley had gone if Denam was so detached. Simple exhaustion would not evoke such a reaction and he often pretended it did not exist; very likely his friend had to promise something he was uncomfortable or ashamed about. Vyce was tempted to comfort his friend, but the darkest recesses of his mind told him he deserved it for even coming up with the fool idea in the first place. He could not push the thought away – or perhaps he did not wish to. Olivya shook Denam's shoulder more rapidly. "Denam?"

"If he doesn't wish to come, leave him be." Vyce's words were cold and distant, but he used the tone he knew Denam would respond to. He would not leave Denam there, of course, but he had no doubt Denam listened to him, if not Olivya. Like with Catiua, Vyce knew that Denam more likely than not knew how to ignore Olivya's insistence. "We've better things to do than sit about freezing in this place. He'll come when he's ready." Vyce turned around and pulled at the bold Sibyl's wrist, but she didn't budge.

"I will not just-!" She snapped with uncharacteristic hostility and pulled away from the Walister roughly. Vyce ignored the glare and continued over to the door.

"Vyce is right." Denam finally spoke. To any who was not as familiar with his friend as he or Catiua, he would have sounded normal, but Vyce heard his waver, his silent pain. "My apologies, I lost track of the time." Denam pushed himself up from the chair and ignored Olivya's hand, which had found its way back to his shoulder. Vyce watched with little care as his friend placed the stray parchments into his pack haphazardly – the disorganization even more sign of his illness than his strained voice – and more carefully placed the inkwell in after them. Pack on his shoulder, he walked over to the fireplace and tossed the nearby bucket of dirt over the fire, so not to allow the abandoned church to burn down in their absence. "Let us return to the Inn." With one last look through the utter darkness of the room to see if he left anything, Denam nodded and pushed his way past Vyce without a glance towards him, almost as distantly as Balxephon had treated his Templars earlier. Olivya rushed up behind, seemingly distressed at Denam's actions. Vyce almost wanted to hold the girl back and tell him to stop being so clingy, but even as brash as he was, he was not so inappropriate to do such; despite what Catiua may have been led to believe, he was not entirely without knowledge of social cues and manners.

Vyce's mind was shockingly blank as the trio put out the remaining tallow and left the church, as quietly as they had arrived. As Denam had stifled their only torch, the three walked through the rainy, miserable darkness. Their slow pace and the walls they placed between each other gave the Walister man a chance to focus not on the harsh reality that awaited him once he returned to Phidoch, but instead survival. Survival he could deal with, survival was instinctual. In contrast, he did not know how to approach the unfamiliar 'betrayal' the commander had committed - as he purposely attempted to avoid the subject, he realized 'twas not the first time Vyce struggled with this same dilemma. Instead of the reality that had not quite set in, he thought of nothing at all and focused on the droplets that hit his head; his bangs stuck to his forehead and his clothes as wet as if they were fresh from the wash, even his undergarments were wet and uncomfortable. 'Twas much easier to wallow in self-pity temporarily when one was exhausted; Vyce had used all his willpower up in a mental struggle against the Lodissians, he did not have the strength to come to terms with the truth in his state.

Their journey to the Inn was both faster and slower than expected. Vyce had spent enough time in Rhime that he could recognize the larger landmarks in the large city to help Denam, who went by memory. Olivya had fallen back into silence, but Vyce could not tell if she was simply tired or she seethed from her earlier small argument with Vyce. Vyce pushed ahead of Denam and opened the large door to the Inn and held it for his friend and Olivya. Olivya did not respond as she entered, but Denam gave him a small, mostly unnoticeable nod of thanks. The Inn was cool, but still very warm and almost blindingly bright compared with the chill darkness of the outdoors. The Inn's patron was asleep, but a new woman, Vyce assumed 'twas a family member who managed the business during the night, gave them all a hard, almost disrespectful look. Vyce could not blame her; they likely looked like thieves or beggars in their state.

"May I help you?" Vyce would have laughed at the brunette woman's feigned accent; she was obviously Walister, but tried to speak in a manner of higher rank, almost Bakram-esque, but failed terribly. 'Twas only enhanced by her rather plain white Walister-styled dress and features. Even Vyce would consider himself more cultured than the woman in front of him; at least he did not pretend to be something he was not.

"We signed in earlier." Vyce responded, because Denam obviously had no desire to. He almost wished his friend would put the haughty woman in her place; at least the Resistance commander spoke in the neutral accent normally. "We're the Hill party." The Walister could barely keep the bitterness from his voice. The false last name had been one Olivya had thought up on a whim when they'd been asked for a family name to put the reservation under. Neither of the men had prepared a name, nor had they expected one to be needed, fortunately the Phoraena's quick thinking had saved them some humiliation - but Hill? He did not know if he liked having the same surname as a large dirt mound.

The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing and turned on heel and walked over to the guestbook. She flipped through the pages and a frown crossed her features, but she nodded, as if she found their names. Without another word, the woman turned away and went about her business in the side room, where the owners stayed. Vyce was glad it had been that easy; he had expected extra harassment, or at least comments about how they were no better than dogs, as their clothes dripped on the floor. Catiua would have said as much. Denam did not so much as nod as he wiped his boots on the carpet at the entrance and made his way through the Inn and up the stairs. Olivya attempted to share a worried look with Vyce, but the Walister man ignored her; whatever troubled Denam, he needed to be left be. Women never seemed to understand the necessity for time alone, not everyone needed to be coddled. Vyce followed his friend without a word; Denam had to overcome his shame soon, else there would be trouble when they returned to Phidoch. Olivya followed the men silently, her footsteps lighter, her stride shorter. Denam did not slow his pace, even once he reached the upper level hallway and made his way directly to the room he and Vyce had been assigned.

"Denam!" Olivya called out to the commander, but he did not hear, or simply ignored her, as the door slammed immediately behind him. Olivya ran forward, past Vyce's side and stopped the Walister man from progressing into the room as well. She turned her face to the side, as if she was disgusted with herself – or, more accurately, her lack of power to help Denam – as she worked her mouth. Very few words came out, as if she was hesitant to ask Vyce for help. "I –" Perhaps the Walister man was partly to blame for her distance, but she, too, made little effort to understand him. Her eyes clung to Denam, like sap to a tree, and cared little for anything else that Vyce could see.

"I'll make sure he's well." Vyce ran a hand through his hair, finally dry enough so that his bangs didn't stick to his skin. He pushed it from his forehead and back away from his face as he spoke. He knew what Olivya wanted to say; Vyce considered himself quite fluent in the tongue known as 'woman,' for Catiua often had difficulty getting what she felt across as well. "Go to sleep, else you'll not be able to care for him in the morning." Olivya first looked alarmed at his perceptiveness - did she think him a brute? - but the emotion was quickly replaced with a smile.

"Yes. . .you're right. Thank you. Good night." The woman offered him another awkward smile and moved from Vyce's way. Her room was just across from theirs and she pushed the door open and did not bother to look back.

Vyce opened his shared guestroom's door to a welcome warmth and dry air from the fireplace. He could still hear the patter of the rain against the window and the side of the Inn, but inside, 'twas far more comfortable and even pleasant to listen to. In the time he and Olivya had spent tarrying, Denam had already removed his boots and had lit one of the tallow lights in the room so he could see. If Denam wanted light, 'twas his choice, but Vyce was too tired to do anything but sleep, wash be damned. As Vyce removed his boots, almost soaked completely through oil and all, he glanced around the room, now almost entirely lit by Denam's consistent and efficient lighting, his control over his magic good enough that he could do it with a basic Fire spell. The bedroom itself was still pitch black, but the commander started to remove his clothes near the fireplace before he moved on. Their old clothes had been laid out to dry hours before and were still in front of the fire; Vyce approached his friend, who had pulled off his shirt and trousers without a word, and mimicked his action while he averted his eyes. He laid his trousers and top on the back of the chair near the clothes he wore earlier, but pushed the older linens away, as they were dry enough that they no longer needed to be by the fire to be comfortable to wear when he awakened. The air was chill against his skin, but 'twas less unpleasant than his being soaked through with wet clothes; even his undergarments were damp. The Walister frowned; he had not wanted to change them until the morning, but it seemed he had no choice. He pointedly ignored his friend, who seemed to do the same to him, as he walked over to his pack and rustled through. He pulled out his nightclothes and new undergarments before he stripped the rest of his clothes off and replaced them with the soft, thick linen. He released a sound of contentment, finally warm and comfortable and relieved that part of his journey was over.

Denam had left the central room for the side bedchambers. Given the light that came from the room, he had already lit the tallow and would likely not return until morning. 'Twas fine with him, as Vyce's mind was off his friend as soon as he turned away from the room and his eyes focused on the couch, which looked far too welcoming for its own good. The Walister man did not bother to put out the tallow, Denam had lit it he could put it out himself, as he fell down onto the couch and curled up, warm and satisfied. Despite his comfort, he did not fall asleep quickly, like he expected. The Walister was troubled; he felt almost as if going to sleep without resolution to his internal debate was avoiding the issues that pressed on his mind. Over and over he repeated possible scenarios for what would happen when they returned to Phidoch. Would Denam make an announcement immediately, or would he have a few days to wait? Where would he go? The thought of running against brought back a primal dread that made his stomach turn and made him roll over, his body now faced the fire, in discomfort. The worst year of his life, worse than any abuse or negligence from his drunken sire, had been spent on the run, as he hid from the Galgastani and the Bakram who occupied Golyat. He never wanted to live like that again. Vyce knew Denam certainly wouldn't hunt him, but to make it look realistic he'd have to send some men in pursuit. Even if their broken trust was not real, the very thought that 'twould be necessary to run for his life again exhausted him – if it was possible for him to be more weary than he already was. His predicament didn't frighten him, or worry him, as he knew well how to get away and defend himself, but he hated that he had to watch his back and he was never safe, always anxious. Perhaps he had gotten weak, comfortable, as he fought alongside Denam. A part of him hated himself, told him he acted just as spoiled and pampered as the nobles he despised. Perhaps for the very first time in his life, Vyce understood the Bakram far better than he dared admit. Comfort and security was very difficult to give up.

Vyce's sleep did not come easily or quickly and was marred by the blurred images of a troubled past and future, neither of which he wanted to be a part of.

* * *

><p>There it was again – that sound. 'Twas not that obnoxious chirping of the birds that usually woke him, but it was almost as bad, and certainly more persistent. Vyce covered his ear with his upper arm and pressed his eyes closed; the sound gave him a headache. After a few minutes, the noise finally stopped and Vyce cautiously released his arm, only to hear something else – footsteps! Vyce rolled up immediately, dagger – he always kept it with him as he slept - in hand. He ignored the way his head pounded from the motion and as he stood defensively. His eyes quickly darted over the room, which was brightened by sunlight through single the large window. Vyce's chest heaved as he flicked the blade about in front of him, only to find a very shocked, and quite scared, Olivya no more than a few paces in front of him. Her hands were up in front of her chest in a sign of submission and her eyes were wide. The woman was fully dressed and her hair was damp, as if she had recently bathed, but it was informal and slightly unbrushed; she looked more like her elder sister, the one who once served Brantyn, than she did the professional Sibyl's appellation she always wore.<p>

"Ah. . .Sir Vyce. . ." Vyce lowered his blade and released his breath. His blood still pumped rapidly from the surprise and 'twas not until a moment later that he noticed Olivya's face was bright red and she was doing her absolute best to avert her eyes and look anywhere but at him. Belatedly, Vyce realized he only had his undergarments and night trousers on; he would have laughed in any other case, but he had to admit he was almost as uncomfortable with the Sibyl around him, especially in such an exposed and vulnerable state, as she was.

"My apologies." He grunted and walked over to the fireplace, which had burnt out over the course of the night, and picked up one of his two shirts. The one he wore for the parley was still slightly damp, but the other was completely dry. Vyce pulled his undershirt over his head as the Sibyl spoke.

"No, 'twas wrong of me to just barge in." She did not sound particularly apologetic and instead held a mischievous amusement that persisted despite her embarrassment. The tone made Vyce believe that she had purposely entered and expected half-naked men and took pleasure in how she made him uncomfortable, perhaps has a subtle revenge for his harshness with her the previous night. While 'twas unlike Catiua to apologize, everything else fit in exactly with what his old friend would do. "But it's two hours from midday; I thought to let you two rest as long as possible, but really must be away from Rhime soon if we want to arrive in Phidoch before nightfall."

"Denam is still asleep?" Denam was always up early; if 'twas almost midday he was either ill or, Great Father forbid, on the verge of depression. On the other hand, Vyce waking at midday was not particularly out of the ordinary and no one would venture a second guess if he did not rise until then.

"I know not. I just entered." Vyce pulled his outer shirt down and ran his hands over the front in order to best smooth the wrinkles, but from behind he heard Olivya take a few steps. He would change his nighttrousers later; instead Vyce quickly turned and approached the woman, and stood in her way in attempt to prevent her entry into Denam's bed chamber. The Walister man would not have another chance to speak with the Sibyl later; he needed his questions answered while Denam was still asleep and could not interrupt them. With any luck, the commander would awaken to the sound of their voices.

"You were there when Prancet died." Vyce declared. 'Twas not an accusation or a question, nor did it hold any hostility. He spoke a simple comment to change the subject quickly to get the Sibyl's mind off the matter of the sleeping commander.

"I was. He was a wonderful man, Valeria weeps at his passing." Olivya's face lost its wicked look and was replaced by something warm, familial even, but it held a bit of curiosity, as if she was unsure why Vyce wanted to know.

"What did he say about Catiua and what Lodis sought, exactly?" There was something Denam hadn't told him. Prancet knew more than he let on; he had obviously known Catiua was Versalia, and he seemed to know _something_ about Loslorien's intentions, if Denam spoke truly, so why did nothing that surrounded the man make sense? It had bothered him since he and Denam had spoken before they left Phidoch.

"He did not know what Lodis seeks, only that it requires the Princess's blood to obtain." Olivya's face fell into a frown and she gave Vyce an accusatory stare, as if she was not particularly comfortable with the discussion and wished for him to drop the subject immediately. "Surely Denam told you this?"

"Yes, vaguely. He refused to go into detail." Vyce pressed. He did not wish to alienate the woman, but he could not have her hiding imperative intelligence that could turn the tide against Lodis.

"How do you know Prancet?" As if to say 'I don't think so,' Olivya changed the subject. She did it so smoothly that Vyce would not have noticed had he not attempted to control the conversation himself. 'Twas not an unfavorable subject, however, and he could still press information out of her, namely about she and the commander's strange relationship.

"I grew up with Denam." The Walister man replied cautiously. He was rather surprised when his tone held some unintended attachment.

"Oh? I'm glad he made some friends." She gave a smile, as if she was truly pleased. Unlike her words, which were motherly and familiar, her face held something akin to possessiveness and her tone was almost apathetic to his comment that he and Denam had grown together in Golyat. She was almost as blind and obsessed as Catiua! "He was such a shy thing; he must have been so lonely after he moved away. . ." She spoke more to herself; the apathy was gone as she closed her eyes and wrung her hands. Vyce's eyes narrowed. She had slipped then; she and Denam's secret was out. She did know him from before, possibly from her being acquainted to Prancet. Why was Prancet in contact with the Bakram? When did Denam get to know her? A part of his mind told him 'twas none of his business and he should let their relationship be, but another, more persistent, part demanded Olivya tell him everything she knew.

"How do you know Denam? You're informal and familiar, no one treats Denam like you other than Catiua and I." Then Vyce understood, it hit him with the force of a hammer to his chest – and he desperately hoped he was wrong – Olivya was Denam's temporary replacement for Catiua. Denam hurt, and Catiua had always supported him, helped him when he needed it most. Vyce had no doubt that Catiua was the one who kept Denam on the more moral path after Balmamusa, lest he follow the same trail as Leonar. Olivya was a good woman, even if Vyce did not particularly care for her, a Sibyl, as Prancet would have preferred in a companion for his son, loyal, and was affectionate and devoted. All traits of Catiua's! She was not quite as forward as the Princess and Vyce might even say that the Phoraena did not speak her mind often enough – perhaps this appealed to his friend because he, too, had grown and could no longer tolerate Catiua's continued nagging. Even Vyce thought it got old after a time. Vyce almost felt bad that he thought about Denam using the poor young woman as such, but no matter what he thought of their relationship, from his point of view, it certainly seemed that way. Such strong bonds were not formed immediately; 'twas very likely even Denam did not know he was so mentally reliant on Olivya because he lacked Catiua.

To his surprise, Olivya did not answer. She stared, and blinked rapidly as she looked at Vyce, but did not meet his eyes. She seemed to try and tell him something, but was unable to get her point across without words. Vyce frowned; she did not seem to want to avoid the subject, but her odd mannerism seemed almost as if 'twas meant to gain her time to formulate an evasive answer. Vyce knew the game; Denam played it too. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, only to close it immediately as he heard footsteps walk up behind him, a presence close enough to send a chill down his spine.

Vyce slowly turned around and stepped back as he understood what Olivya tried to tell him. Denam stared at him flatly, his eyes with the same impassive gaze they always held, but alongside it was a cool severity that told Vyce he heard exactly what he had questioned Olivya about and that he was not pleased. Vyce felt a mix of shame, displeasure, anger, and frustration at the response from his friend, who slowly walked past without further acknowledgement, as if only to emphasize his point. To Vyce's, and apparently Olivya's, surprise, Denam was fully dressed, even if his hair was unbrushed and tangled. His manner was confident, but Vyce would put Goth down on a bet that Denam had not slept at all the previous night – the way his face had looked was as if he had aged almost a decade overnight. He was beyond exhausted and existed in a state that Vyce could not put words into.

"Olivya, if you would. . .?" Vyce looked away from his friend, best leave him to his sour mood, and back toward Olivya as the commander spoke. Vyce was not comfortable enough to finish changing his trousers and prepare himself for the day with the woman in the room and, though Denam would not speak it in his state, the Walister knew his friend agreed. Denam still had to finish readying himself as well.

"O-Oh!" The woman did not bother to not to Vyce, but she looked to Denam as she spoke, as if she desperately sought a reaction of some sort. What did she search for? What did Denam contemplate in his silence? The tenseness between the trio only increased and Vyce found that he could hardly wait to get back to Phidoch – even if he would become a 'traitor' when he did so. Almost anything was better than the discomfort between the three. "I'll call for an early midday meal to arrive in about half an hour, then." With a few more mumbled words that Vyce couldn't hear, the Bakram woman excused herself and exited the room.

Vyce turned towards Denam and stared, very pointedly, at his friend's back. Denam did not react, but he did stop moving, as if he knew Vyce watched him. The duo remained in the awkward silence, no more than three paces from each other, for almost two minutes; Vyce could tell by the way Denam breathed heavily that he wanted to speak of what laid on his mind and elaborate on what caused his suffering and distress. Perhaps 'twas because of the broken trust between them, or perhaps because the commander did not wish to burden Vyce with his issues, but no words left Denam's lips. Neither could Vyce bring himself to demand his answers or the truth – what happened with Prancet, with Lodis, with Balxephon, with Olivya and Catiua? What did Denam hide – no, more, _why_ did he hide it?

* * *

><p>The return to Phidoch had been utterly, disturbingly silent. Denam spoke not a word, despite Olivya's, and even Vyce's, considerable attempts to get him to respond with more than a grunt. His eyes remained on the horizon as if he was trying to reach some place he could not quite see; whenever they were not, they looked at the ground with clenched fists, as if in anger. Vyce had no doubt the stress had finally overwhelmed his friend, paired with whatever else troubled him since their trip to Rhime. The stress ate away at Vyce, too; Olivya seemed to ignore it, or she did not notice it all together, but even Vyce had become snippy as the trio approached Phidoch castle's now-familiar countryside.<p>

Even though war held its grasp firmly around southern Valeria's countryside, the grassland regions around Phidoch had only profited from it. Trade had increased since the Lodissians were removed from the castle, and the people were more active and less fearful. Relations between Rhime and Phidoch had finally improved, and even in a few short scales Rhime had repopulated itself, its refugees returned to their homes. The farms still suffered, with the war harsh on the crops and thieves and bandits about, but their profits, too, soared even if their output was not as high. There was never any difficulty in selling their products in the cities, be it the slightly more distant Rhime or the closer Phidoch, and prices remained steady in the war. Where some groups suffered, others prospered; such was the way of life, unfair as it was. The large fields were vibrant green and the sky was a bright, cloudless blue and it appeared the rain had ended for the next day or two, but the roads were still a muddy mess that made the group's travel unpleasant despite the beautiful weather.

The world mocked them. Sunny, bright weather – so bright the world seemed to glow - pleasant smiles from those they passed, birds that chirped constantly, and even wildlife that chose not to remain in the shadows, but cross the roads. Vyce had never been one to pay attention to the flora and fauna, but as his mortality teetered on the brink, he felt an odd calmness, an oneness with the world around him. His fear of what was to come made him pay attention when he had earlier ignored the sights; these visions of beauty would not be so frequent when he fled, he had to soak up the memories as much as he could. The Walister man had thought himself solidified against the worry and believed he had come to terms with what he had to do, but as the time for action approached he suddenly felt very young and vulnerable, much like he had during his first battles with the Resistance.

What did Olivya think of, he wondered. He did not know how much she knew of what was to come, or if she was uncomfortable and troubled only because Denam was. Vyce did not wish to think her so single minded; he knew she cared and loved her family and her duty, but how far did her devotion go? Like many, she accepted Denam's feigned alliance because she trusted that Denam knew what was right – but Vyce knew better, and he believed that Olivya saw it too. The commander was not perfect, he had flaws; Vyce knew, from Denam's admission and from his inside knowledge of their strategy, the plan was based entirely on chance, the hopes that Catiua would assist them, and that Lodis would not return immediately once they were forced from the Isles.

Almost as soon as they entered the city of Phidoch, Denam's demeanor changed drastically. He stood a bit taller and his features softened, as if the darkness of the early morning had never been there. He had pleasantly greeted the city guards, who had not immediately recognized him with his informal appearance, before he brought – the first time he had led the duo anywhere all day - Olivya and Vyce over to an alley. Vyce would have laughed had the situation not sent chills through him; 'twas almost as if he wanted to get caught acting in secrecy, as there had been little subtlety in the action, yet he still appeared worried. Denam's eyes glanced back and forth to make sure no one was around and that the area was clear of threats before he motioned the two to come closer. Vyce did not move, despite the order to, and instead stayed near the entrance to the alley as a watch; if Denam wanted to remain hidden, he needed to make sure no one eavesdropped. The commander understood; his personal issues seemed to have affected his judgment, he would not allow it to happen again. Denam spoke to Olivya first and Vyce listened curiously.

"I thank you for accompanying me." The man was damned good at the act, Vyce could admit, and through tone alone he could not tell anything was wrong with the commander. Vyce's eyes remained on the city's main walkway, but few paid him any heed. 'Twas sunset, the red-gold light of the sky almost caused the white walls of Phidoch to turn yellow and gave the very city a glow. With the late time, most had already returned to their homes from whatever duties they had, be it work or shopping – save the drunkards, they wouldn't be home until later. Those who had not finished rushed through the streets and did not care for the presence of the lone man who leaned against the wall in a side alleyway, as if bored.

"Denam. . ." In contrast to Denam's neutral tone, Olivya's held obvious worry, as she, too, knew he feigned the strength he showed. Vyce uncomfortably flicked his dagger into his hand and pretended he didn't hear her as he stroked his finger up and down the well-worn leather; the subject of the conversation was normal, but the implications hidden behind the words were far more complex and spoke that she knew of his closely-held troubles. Could not the woman wait until later? Denam obviously had something important to say.

"Do not worry yourself over me, Olivya, I'll be fine." Vyce severely doubted that and, if he judged by Olivya's hesitation, so did the Sibyl. Before she could reply, Denam continued, to Vyce's surprise, with a dismissal. "Now, go find your sister and tell her you're all right, there's no doubt she's worried for you." Even from his position some distance away Vyce could tell Olivya hesitated. In Vyce's mind a memory of Catiua flashed, of how her lips would move voicelessly, her fists would clench and unclench, and her eyes would darken whenever Denam asked to be alone. Vyce glanced over to the woman and saw a similar defensive stance with clenched fists, but he couldn't tell how else she reacted with her back to him – he imaged her with expressive features similar to Catiua's. Vyce held back a smile, and held the warm feeling closely within him. He would not see Catiua for some time, even the smallest memories would become precious. After a moment, Vyce realized how dire the situation was and the warmth fell away, replaced with void; if Denam dismissed Olivya and not Vyce, it meant that the two needed to have a private discussion. Olivya remained stationary for some time, at least that Vyce could hear, with his gaze on the main street. A guard had started to stare at him, his eyes focused on Vyce's weapon. The Walister captain shrugged and very openly put his dagger away so that the guard in the distance could see he was no threat. The guard frowned at him for another moment or so before the other man went back on his patrol, seemingly satisfied that the shady man who lurked in the alley was not a thief.

A minute later, he heard a soft, deflated sigh and soft footsteps. As if on cue, Olivya lightly pushed past Vyce, her shoulder brushed against his chest; she gave him a nod, just to be respectful, before she walked down the street towards the castle, now-empty basket in hand and satchel over her shoulder. She looked every bit like the Sibyl she was as Vyce watched her walk into the distance; odd, he had never quite noticed her professionalism before. He had criticized her for her informality earlier in the day, but realized only then that she was always so approachable and acted kind and empathetic, like a model Sibyl, act or no.

Vyce felt a tug at his shirt sleeve as his friend pulled him back into the alley. Vyce rolled his eyes; he could have simply said 'Vyce, come here' and made it easier for both of them. Vyce followed his friend, whose previously-neutral features had returned to troubled, but still more controlled than they had been earlier. "I trust you're not going to tell me what's wrong?" Denam pretended to ignore the quip as he moved in close. His friend's voice was low; Vyce's own eyes were downcast, unable to meet the commander's. Just a moment before he had been amused, but now – now was the time. There was no more room for pleasure.

"Return to the castle and prepare your belongings." Vyce could barely bring himself to breathe. He was not uncomfortable with Denam's close proximity but his tone, alarmingly apathetic and cold, was as if he wanted to purposely distance Vyce. Perhaps he had the right idea; 'twould only be more painful for them both if they continued as friends who were forced to pretend to hate each other. But Vyce was not like Denam; he could not force his emotions away so easily.

"You're going to make the announcement so soon? You've barely just arrived back." Vyce did not know why he said it, perhaps to buy any bit of time, to get a better grasp on the situation, but it was not unexpected in the least; perhaps it was some last desperate attempt to somehow convince Denam to turn his back on the fool of a plan. Vyce felt as if he had spent the last few days in nothing but wasted time. He should have planned and focused on his goal, not just asked mundane questions and mused. The Walister felt like a fool; he should not have questioned Denam's motivations and actions, he should have worked his own dilemmas out! He cursed his short-sightedness.

"Such a valuable alliance must be shared with the people immediately." He recited the words as if he read them from a book.

"I understand." He did not, truly, but he did not know what else he could do other than simply trust his friend? "Have you decided who is to come with me?"

"Aye, you'll need to alert them once you return, you'll have about an hour or so to prepare, I'll buy you as much time as I can – but do be subtle about it. Visit one, and tell that one to speak to the others, and so forth. Arycelle, Sherri, Hobyrim, and Ozma will be leaving with you." Vyce did his best to hold back his frown at the latter; he doubted the Lodissian woman would follow his orders, and he certainly did not wish to be anywhere around her; he did not even know why she had decided to join the Resistance at all. "They've all issues with Brantyn or Lodis and if this was real, they would be unable to remain at my side."

"Communication?" Vyce nodded his acceptance, even if he did not like it. There were many parts to this plan he did not like or agree with, but there were more important issues to worry about than the few people he was to bring with him. With any luck he would not have to say more than a few words to the Bakram and Lodissian women. Hobyrim – Vyce knew little about him other than that he seemed fond of the Loslorien Templar, which set him on edge further, but he was a skilled sword in combat and Vyce had trusted him in battle before. He was more pleased about Arycelle; her presence would again bring support in the troops. He had learned his lesson, though, she needed a tight leash else she could ruin everything.

"As discussed, I'll send a shadow with missives some five days after I've received reports that you've. . .acclimatized." This brought forth the question of how expansive Denam's shadow's influence spread - a pointless observation that served no purpose and Vyce did not even bother to mention it. He did not have the time for that nonsense, especially as the commander's tenseness spread to him; 'twas not the shade of the alley that caused Vyce to shiver.

"And a 'scene?'" Denam had mentioned it before. They were to make a rather vocal scene about their disagreement so that any shadows who questioned Denam's motives would report to their superiors, hopefully Lodissians, immediately. Once this theatre started, neither could turn back.

"You must rally those already upset with a call to arms." Denam could not meet his eyes as he spoke. Vyce's glare continually darkened as he kept his gaze on the other man's face. Their close proximity did not help matters and their shared severity only made it feel as if the world crashed down on them. "Speak with your new companions before you come to my room – we'll 'argue' in the hall outside. You won't have time to tell them once we've started."

"Understood." Of course, if he simply went to Arycelle's room immediately when he arrived any who watched him would know that something was off. He would have to wait some time until Denam had started his speech, then he would request the Archer speak to the Sherri – and have Arycelle tell Sherri to speak with Ozma and Hobyrim. It was all very clear and would work nicely. Denam was not done, even as Vyce started to plan his actions in his mind. "I'll do my best to prevent sending anyone after you immediately, but once you start moving, I'll have to." Vyce interrupted him.

"You needn't tell me, I know how life will be." He knew all too well; he did not want to think about it. He was more worried that the Walister would not accept him as leader again – or, more accurately, they would not be united under him. True, many had declared they would follow him, but others had been very upset about his decision to ally the Alliance and Resistance. Those who had refused had fled to the Tigers, if Vyce guessed correctly based off of Denam's reports he had read, so perhaps the worst had already come to pass and his Walister would not splinter into a third, or fourth, faction. He dare not share his worries with the commander; the man had enough on his shoulders already. Vyce could only do his best to assist and preserve what little unity there was left in their people.

Vyce's pain and fear must have shown on his face, as Denam finally met his gaze with his own sad eyes before he looked down and pressed them closed. ". . .I'm sorry. I wish I didn't have to bring you into this. Only I should suffer from my mistakes." In his vulnerability, the commander looked almost boyish, or even feminine with the way his bangs fell in front of his face to obscure his eyes. Vyce wondered is his weakness was as easy for Denam to read as his friend's was to him. Most likely; Denam, like his sister, always could read him as they would a book.

Vyce felt an odd wave of distress, out of character and certainly unexpected. Anger immediately followed the distress; Denam was such a fool! He took everything upon himself, as if he could solve all of Valeria's troubles on his own. The bloody boy could not even solve his own problems, let alone the entire Island's! If he spoke his thoughts aloud, the Walister man could just imagine Denam's snapped reply about how Vyce wanted to change the Island just as much, with his 'revolution' against the nobility and alter their culture significantly. 'Twas true, Vyce, too, wanted to solve the troubles, but unlike Denam, he knew when to request support. He had allied with the Resistance because he saw it was the best course of action and allowed him to further his goals. Denam? He was hesitant to even ask Vyce what he thought about a strategy against weak brigands, let alone the entirety of the Bakram forces.

Vyce put the pieces together in his mind: Denam was insecure. Vyce wondered how he could have missed it, because it answered many of his questions. The commander feigned total and utter confidence and forced others away from him because he felt his decisions brought only harm and pain. No, he corrected himself – insecure was the wrong word. After Catiua left, Denam had fallen into a self-sacrificial bubble that somehow made him believe that his only purpose was his duty and anything less was a shame to his father and himself. That idiot! Vyce wanted to throttle his friend. So he had made mistakes – that did not mean he had to bear the entire world's burden because of it. "Don't be a fool! You can't hold everything in forever; you must rely on others some time."

"Speak for yourself." Denam finally looked up and smiled lightly, but Vyce could not tell if the expression was true. The Walister's anger drained almost instantly; yes, perhaps, he too was just as bad. He constantly berated himself for what he had been unable to do in Golyat and Balmamusa. He, too, refused to accept the assistance of others – he cursed Denam, who always knew how to throw his arguments back at him. Denam finally took a step away to give Vyce distance as his smile faded. "When this is over. . .I'll tell you everything. I swear it" The words held finality. Their conversation was over – there was no more to say as friends. Denam held his gloved hand out; it trembled lightly, the only sign of weakness that broke the peaceful moment. Vyce stared at it for a hesitant instant before he grasped it with his own bare hand and shook it firmly. He met his friend's eyes and spoke his ultimatum:

"You'd best survive until then, because I intend to make you keep that promise."

* * *

><p>Phidoch was not quite in a state of chaos, but it certainly would be in the near future. The Resistance members were deathly silent as Vyce passed through the halls, little more than a few whispers here and there. No one paid any heed to him, but mostly because he walked through the relatively unused halls of the ranked members. 'Twas the calm before the storm, as the sailors of Golyat would have said. Vyce felt as if he was in the sand under the surface; soon the waves would be large enough to pull him along with them, but until then he was relatively safe and undisturbed.<p>

He almost wished he had been in the Great Hall when Denam spoke. There was no point to it, but even when speaking the most morbid and horrible news, somehow his friend knew how to manipulate the crowd; Vyce doubted Denam entirely realized his skill. During the time Denam had spoken, Vyce had conferred with Arycelle; the woman was certainly efficient, she had started to ready herself even as Vyce spoke with her about their plans. She would speak to Sherri for him, and if Sherri would not pass the word along to Hobyrim, then she would. The Walister woman had been surprisingly passionate about Vyce's decision. The Archer never quite forgave Denam for Balmamusa, but she knew when to put aside her anger for the greater good. With the 'rebellion,' the Walister woman would continue a fight in the way she truly believed in.

The Walister Archer's passion had struck him silent. He had been such a fool; he called Denam blind to the desires of the Walister, but perhaps Vyce, too, remained so - even if he saw more than his friend. How many more of his friends, companions, colleagues, felt the same as Arcyelle? They were uncomfortable – as if they compromised their beliefs to fit in for the greater good. A scale earlier Vyce would have sworn he had not done similarly, but as he reflected, he was no different. He had clenched his fists then, frustrated that something so wrong, to reject the Walister people's will, conflicted with what was so obviously right, or the necessity and safety of the entire island of Valeria and the unity to make it so. So Vyce did nothing, what could he do? He continued to walk through the halls, strikingly, dangerously quiet, and mused on how utterly powerless he was as a single man. He could only live within his capabilities; nothing he wanted was doable alone. The Walister man almost laughed at his foolishness; 'twas a fine time to doubt himself, after everything was already in place and he would be gone within the hour.

When Vyce finally reached Denam's hall, which held a good many guest rooms, the atmosphere changed in an instant. Captains, merchants, some nobility, and even average soldiers flooded the hall and the earlier silence was nullified, replaced with a consistent buzz, much like that of a bee. The captain pushed his way through the masses and glared at any who dared try to stop him. His act had already started; Vyce was 'angry' and sought to demand answers from the commander. He would not stop until he received the 'truth.' He could not simply start the theatre once he exited Denam's room, he must show those outside he truly was enraged before he met with the commander.

As always, Denam's room was guarded by two Knights, who had secured the area as best they could with their two numbers against the mob in the hall. Vyce hoped his friend had called in some extra guards, for if the people became restless enough, two Knights would not stop their charge. The captain did his best to look furious as he approached; he clenched his jaw, narrowed his eyes, and breathed deeply as motioned his head to the door without a word to tell them he wanted to enter.

"The commander isn't taking visitors." The Knight's voice was dry and practiced, but his hand was on his blade. He looked tired, as if he had said the same phrase over and over since Denam returned to his room. The normally-relaxed man's forehead was creased in a frown and his companion, the Knight who remained on the right side of the door, looked frustrated, almost angry at yet another disruption. He released a long sigh and, like his friend, grasped the hilt of his blade.

"I don't give a damn. Let me pass." Vyce hissed as best he could, the language enough to give the two pause. To further prove his point, he flicked his dagger into his hand to the shocked gasps of everyone nearby. Those who recognized him, there were many as mostly those of rank were this far up the passage, tried to murmur for him to calm down. Vyce ignored the soldiers and bent his knees in a defensive posture, as if he intended to strike. The Knights looked at each other and had a silent conversation before one nodded. Vyce was pleased the two recognized that he held some rank with his friend and had some preferential treatment; he did not wish to have to fight them, even if as an act.

"Commander. . .?" The first Knight stuck his head into Denam's room, while the second kept his unwavering eyes on Vyce to make sure he made no rash moves. "Er, Vyce _requests _an audience." How very proper; it sounded like something Denam would say.

"He alone may enter." Vyce could not tell if the weariness and annoyance in Denam's voice was true or feigned, as he could not see his friend through the small crack in the door that the Knight occupied. The Knight in the doorway turned and gave Vyce a nod. He pushed the door open for him, just barely, and Vyce walked past and pushed the man out of the way. He cursed under his breath as his ungloved hand met thick armor –artificial anger did not necessarily mean he had to be so irrational and hurt himself. Vyce slammed the door shut behind him and sheathed his dagger as turned towards his friend without a word.

"Wait in here for a few moments. We must give it time, to 'confer' about matters." His friend spoke without greeting. Vyce glanced quickly over the table, surprisingly empty and lacked parchments for orders despite the commander's departure for a day. He saw some water but no wine, but did not bother to pour any for himself, as he would not have time to drink it. The room was lit mostly by torches, but there was a large tallow candle atop the table to keep the central area bright. Denam had changed to his formal attire and he looked more secure, the earlier signs of weakness gone completely. Vyce didn't believe it for a moment.

"Anything you wish to argue about?" Vyce tried as he leaned against the opposite end of the table near the door. For one of the first times in his life, Vyce had no desire to be in conflict with his friend. There were many things he wanted to say and demand, but he simply felt drained of any of his normal stubborn hostility.

To Vyce's surprise, Denam laughed. He could not quite tell if 'twas sardonic or amused, or perhaps both. "Anything you've wanted to yell at me about in this last week? Let it all out." He chuckled again and Vyce got the feeling the commander poked fun at him in his own way. No doubt he referenced how Vyce questioned of the Sibyl earlier in the day.

"We'd be there for an eternity then; I'll keep it brief." He did have quite a bit to say, but all of it slipped away. It felt almost as if it was an insult to demand the answers he most desired in feigned anger – he wanted them to be spoken willingly, not forced out.

Denam did not respond; there was nothing more to say, they only remained together to give those outside reason to believe they 'conferred.' Both men had made peace with what they had to do, even though neither liked it. Where Denam kept his eyes closed and looked as if he was in peaceful meditation, Vyce glanced over to the window; 'twas dark outside, the sun had completely set. The window was open, Vyce could hear nothing from outside, and the air was still warm enough to be a pleasant night for travel and not utterly miserable like the previous. The moon was bright in the sky; there would be no rain. More than five minutes in the comfortable, cool silence passed before Denam spoke the fateful words that Vyce had no doubt would change their future forever, if not the future of Valeria.

"Let's go." Denam pushed himself up from his chair and Vyce's mouth suddenly went dry. He, too, pushed himself from the table, but felt a wave of panic run through him. He should have spent the time in thought of what to say, but he had simply tarried pointlessly and stared at the sky, very similar to his idiocy earlier. Denam motioned for Vyce to exit first but the soon-to-be former captain couldn't move. His feet were rooted the ground and his breaths were rapid in their desperation. Denam examined him curiously, but Vyce did not care if he made a foolish scene out of himself. He swallowed hard and his fists clenched and unclenched. _Hesitation_ - How strange and out of place. Vyce almost wished Denam would laugh at him, 'twould act as the motivator he needed.

In an instant it was over. He did not swallow back his fear, as his stomach was still a pit that twisted within him, but the pain would be over sooner if he did not continue to delay it. Again, the Walister man walked towards the exit and did his best to turn that regret into anger. He placed his hand on the door and finally turned toward the commander, whose face was completely flat and emotionless. Vyce put his weight into his arm and the door fell easily open as he called out, loudly enough for all near him to hear, with a feigned anger and hostility. "You betray us all!"

"And you offer me no alternatives!" Vyce pushed through the hall just enough that Denam's voice could be heard. Denam truly _was_ good at the theatre he claimed to loathe. His act was much more believable than Vyce's, which had come off as stiff and uncomfortable. Perhaps 'twas better that way, one did not always sound fluid when angry. "The Princess is the future; it is you who turns your back on Valeria – not I." Vyce's mind immediately flashed towards the memory of his discussion with young Alan about rebellion, where he had said almost the same.

"And in doing so you sacrifice the Walister – you might well rob the future from them in your ignorance." Vyce spoke the first thing that came to mind as he motioned angrily in the direction of his friend, who was backed by his Knights, out of the doorway. The captain had held those fears in for a time; he supposed Denam's idea to speak his frustrations held some merit. The words came out with less force and more anger as many moved down the hall towards the duo who argued in attempt to learn more of the situation. The heat of the bodies was pressed so closely behind him it almost stifled him. He almost wanted to push the people away, their close presence set him on edge.

"Nonsense – I fight for all of Valeria, the Walister in-"

"Just as you fought for those Walister in Balmamusa?" he cut his friend off. They'd had this argument before, many times. It always came back to Balmamusa – and it always would. He would never forgive his friend for it, nor would the Walister, so 'twas the perfect subject for any argument, including this one.

"This _again_?" Denam almost looked annoyed, but he did not send Vyce the subtle glare that meant to change the subject he had expected. Vyce understood the meaning of his words nonetheless. The voices behind him gasped in shock; many would not bring Balmamusa up in public, but Vyce had never held such reservations. He had been the one to speak the truth of the events to the people, after all.

"Your loyalties to the country may not sway, but your methods do. You are inconsistent and hypocritical." Vyce had no idea where _that _came from. Denam seemed thrown off by his rapid change in subject as well. Vyce had simply spoken what annoyed him; Denam continued to fight the same battle, but he refused to remain with a single secure method. He claimed acceptance for the Galastani and that the war was between the nobility, yet he had used the same nobility to create peace in Galgastan and, more, his support from the Walister nobility and the Order of Philaha was what gave him the ability to act freely. This entire façade's purpose was nobility – Catiua. Yes, Vyce could see why he was angered so, even if he had never put the thoughts to word before.

"You might well be speaking about yourself." Denam's reply was cautious and low. Many in the area who listened in were struck silent. Vyce did not have time to contemplate what he meant, and he was admittedly unsure as to what the commander referred to, he cried out the first thing that came to mind.

"Do not dare compare us – we are nothing alike." Yes, that worked well and was suitably irrational. Vyce turned his back on his friend. Their 'argument' was short but it had given those around enough tidbits of information that rumors would spread as fire would on a grassy hill. The Walister man dropped his tone so that only those close to him could hear; he could almost feel the tension in the air as half of the passage listened in. "Your actions are intolerable; you are no different from Ronwey. You would not only enslave us again to the nobility, but also a foreign power!" Vyce took three steps down the hall and ignored the shocked protests of those he pushed out of the way. "To think I put my trust in you a second time. . .I'm disgusted with myself." He shook his head to show that disgust and allowed a grimace to cross his features in regret as he made his way away from Denam, who did not call out in reply. It was done. The rest was up to Vyce; he had to win the support of the Walister, somehow.

The hall was far busier than when he had entered and Vyce ignored the questioning looks and words of confusion from those around him as he pushed his way through. He suddenly felt both very small and very large; small as in that he felt powerless and threatened and large in that it felt as if everyone's eyes were on him as he passed, he was the center of fears and hopes. Just his presence alone seemed to spring words from the Resistance members who hadn't been close enough to hear would not spread immediately, nor would the entirety of the Resistance be alerted for hours yet, so the passages between Denam's hall and the Great Hall, where Denam earlier made his speech, were quiet and peaceful. He hoped that some of the troops from the commander's earlier speech remained, but Vyce knew that all he needed to do was wait there even if they did not. Once word spread that he and their commander fought, the soldiers would come to though he was not hot, Vyce felt sweat slick his body and his clothes clung to him. He was nervous, terrified, and at the same time relieved, as soon the first step in their plan would be complete. Lodis and their shadows would not doubt have quite a bit to tell their masters.

'Twas all easier than anticipated; the Walister made his way through the halls without more than a few encounters with those who passed. As soon as he entered the main entranceway to the more used parts of the castle, he immediately heard what he had hoped for: there was indeed a large group that remained in the center of Phidoch. As he made his way close, the voices were much louder than the earlier buzz of Denam's hall and were instead loud enough that Vyce could both hear every word that was spoken and also none at all. The large doors were pushed open by the countless bodies in the room and Vyce was unable to take more than ten steps into the Great Hall before he was swarmed with soldiers. Even in the cool of night the Great Hall was hot, the smells of the soldiers filled the air, of sweat and dirt and the natural odor of the human body. Vyce cringed and pressed through the Resistance members, primarily Walister, as the Galgastani dealt with Brigantys and Coritanae, spoke loudly, one topic on their lips. Now within the tide of the men and women, he heard their words more clearly. Denam's gamble worked; they spoke to Vyce as soon as they noticed him and demanded answers to the rumors and asked questions that would determine their fates.

"Is it true?"  
>"Denam allied with the Lodissians?"<br>"The Dark Knights met the commander in parley. . ."

Vyce sighed and shook his head. There were too many, he could not answer one let alone them all. He motioned to be allowed to pass and those who recognized him helped push his way through. The former-captain made his way up the stairs, and to the top of the hall, where less soldiers stood. He looked over the large gathering of men and women in silence, but as more and more recognized him, they came to move up near him. Their demands only increased in ferocity and determination. Soon it felt like the entire room had their eyes on him, even if he knew 'twas only about a third.

"Quiet, all of you." Vyce raised his voice, but it wasn't loud enough to be heard. Those within a few paces of him fell into the requested silence, but also shifted in anticipation. They could feel that something was coming, almost as much as Vyce could, but the room below him continued its loud discussion – if 'discussion' was even the right word for the chaos. "Enough!" He called more loudly, his voice echoed through the hall above the voices. Vyce was not Denam; he had no qualms using such primitive tactics such as bellows to garner their attentions if 'twas an effective stratagem. The voices near calmed almost immediately, almost in a wave that spread out in the room, with him in the center. Vyce felt the return of his nervousness in his stomach at how all of the eyes on the room faced him, some in disgust, some in curiosity, and some in awe – but all searched for answers that they knew he had.

"I know what is expected of me up here. You seek reassurance; you want to be told the whispers are lies, slander spread by traitors." Vyce breathed in deeply. He hated to make such a show, but also understood its necessity – the prolonged silence after his words only secured the attention in everyone in the Great Hall and they held their breath in anticipation. He did not have the power or control over his words that his friend did, but he spoke from his heart and knew no other way. He knew that his more humble manner was what drew men to him. "I cannot give you that." In an instant, the hall erupted, everyone whispered to each other, but the sound became so loud was almost as thunderous as the more vocal demands of earlier. Vyce remained silent at the top of the stairs until the whispers calmed and closed his eyes for a long moment before he looked back down. "Denam, your commander, did indeed treat with the Dark Knights. He feels we lack sufficient strength to defeat the Bakram on our own."

"He sells us to Lodis!" One particularly loud voice cried above the crowd. Multiple other voices called out similarly, but Vyce could not make out their words, as they blended together into a wordless mass. He assumed they were in agreement with what the loudest voice spoke and answered accordingly.

"I don't know. He wishes to give his loyalty to the Princess, not Lodis." As if by magic, the room was silent again at his declaration, but when he stopped it was filled with more whispers. Rarely, and certainly more quietly, from behind him he could hear some that spoke of approval. As anticipated, and Vyce was relieved that all seemed to fall into place well, many soldiers would support Denam's decision to side with the Princess; if the Resistance was lucky, those who had deserted to serve her would return, as predicted. The Walister were the ones he risked and they were the ones Vyce had to win, for Denam held onto them most tediously. An interesting conundrum; it started off as the Walister Resistance, but now many Walister wanted no part in it.

"The Princess is a Lodissian tool!" Another loud yell sounded amongst the quiet whispers; the voice was definitely Walister. His words sparked more outrage than any of the previous comments about Denam's loyalty had and Vyce watched in worry as the room fell from his control. He glanced down and around and he saw some weapons had been drawn and cursed. To the external observer, it would appear the room was almost on the verge of riot. The tension had only drawn the attention of more soldiers; even the servants had stopped their chores to see what the fuss was about. Vyce expected these reactions and was pleased with them – the anger would allow him to control the crowd. He remembered vividly: his very first speech after Balmamusa had been very similar to how he spoke now. The Alliance was built on similar pent up distaste within the Walister; Vyce, too, understood and felt it, were he not friends with Denam, he would have stood alongside those in the room, yelling in anger. He empathized with these men because he was no different than they. In a moment that made him feel far too much like Denam for his own good, he accepted and understood that his closeness was precisely why he held control – he knew their emotions as well as they did, and what could trigger a response in them.

"My friends." Vyce spoke loudly, but to no avail. The voices continued to rise and it quickly became obvious those in the room had started to form camps, factions that sided with the Princess and Denam and those who rejected both. The latter was who Vyce targeted. Those who turned away from the Resistance were mostly Walister, from what Vyce could tell from the responses near him, and were younger, mostly lower class. There were no surprises and Vyce felt a surprising wave of relief. He had not even spoken in 'rally' as Denam had asked, but from his position 'twas clear the Alliance would be reformed. But Vyce also understood that not all would conform to him or Denam; in the worst scenario the men would join the Burnham Tigers. The Tigers were a group Vyce could respect in their ideals and goals, but unlike the former-Alliance - and even the more brutal Liberation Front -, its methods were far too harsh, as they often involved civilians. Much like Ronwey's Resistance, that, he mused with some dismay. The Walister captain showed a rare bout of self-control and passiveness, one that only seemed to make itself known when in public when he needed it most, as he shook his head at the pathetic sight in front of him. How sad it all was; no wonder the Lodissians and Bakram made such a mockery of the Walister and Galgastani with all of the ridiculous infighting. Well, Lodis could be just as bad, if what Vyce had witnessed proved correct.

Vyce waited as patiently as he could until the protests died down and eyes eventually made their way to him again. He was amazed the chaos calmed at all; this was the eye of the storm, the time between the highest peaks of waves. Perhaps a full five minutes later, Vyce finally held the gaze of the room, barely, as most were still so intent on each other and continued to glare about whenever they heard a comment they didn't like. 'Twas almost too easy, as if they played right into his hands. Even if he must act a manipulator as his friend, 'twas better for it to be Vyce, an average man, who guided the people in a fight they desperately wished for than an apathetic noble like the Duke who spread only false promises and death. The nobles did not fight for the people's needs, only their own. Vyce felt his old passion return; it had never died, but it had simply fallen into the depths of his mind. He could not strike openly at the nobles who supported Denam, that would ruin everything, but the Bakram were fair game – they were who he needed to attack and draw hostility towards. His words were heated, and held more of his emotion than his earlier calmness. He needed to show the people he was just as upset as they were.

"Calm yourselves, now is not the time for panic or anger. We must look at this with open hearts and clear minds. Balmamusa was an outrage; we all know the commander murdered our kin once in the past and now you worry he will allow it to occur again. But this no longer just about Balmamusa or the anger we felt there. This is not even about the Walister – Denam seeks to sell the very soul of the isles! Friends, brothers, allies, this is not about ethnicity, nor religion. We get nowhere with these petty arguments of morals and whether or not the Princess will protect us from Lodis. All of us came here with one dream: A Valeria with equality for all." The words flowed from his lips and as they did so memories of violence flashed within his mind: of death, and pain, of poverty, of starvation and of the oath he would never live in such a way again. He had found the place where he belonged once again. Even if his disagreement with Denam was only an act, the words he spoke were truer than any noble in their political games spoke in their lifetime. "Killing each other gets us nowhere. It is Lodis, the Bakram, and the nobility who tears us apart who we must turn our anger on, not our brothers. I once said to my friends in the Alliance that 'twas we who should lay our arms down in the sake of unity." He paused again, for effect. "I was wrong. The Resistance has lost its way; no longer does it represent the Walister."

"Traitorous Walister filth!" Vyce was interrupted by a loud Galgastani, one of the rare few not sent to Coritanae, voice from the middle of the crowd. Vyce's eyes searched for the speaker, but with so many in the Great Hall it was like trying to find a particular grain of sand. The room continued to fill as he spoke, mostly with more Walister who had been called in by their comrades; he was amazed that had word spread so quickly. The captain, no, former-captain, was tempted to believe that the Alliance-members had planned such a revolution for some time and Vyce's words were the trigger to their plans. They had to take the opportunity that was given to them, just as Vyce did.

"Your master is the traitor, Galgastani!" hissed a Walister in return. Vyce pressed his eyes closed; though he had expected the tensions between Clans to heat again, it did not suit him to allow it just yet. Before the argument could begin anew, he raised his hands, palms up in front of him in signal for peace in attempt to silence them before the rest of the Great Hall entered the argument, as was almost inevitable.

"Stop. We must leave our ancestral quarrels at the door. Now is not the time to be fighting." The angry bellow of the two men and those around them calmed and again Vyce regained control of the room. He could not keep this up much longer else a riot would ensue, the men were too tense, or, if he was Arycelle, he would have said the twine wound too tightly in the bow. It must be ended soon. He'd done his best, 'rally' or no. He had made his motives and intentions clear to the public, 'twas all he could do. "I know. I was betrayed, as you all were. The Alliance, the Resistance, we sought to make them one, but now the Resistance seeps yet further into the arms of the damned. No longer can the Walister people support Denam Pavel. I call you, my friends, back to arms-"

Before Vyce could continue, the voices rose again. There were no cheers of support or happiness, only yells of anger, betrayal – both for the Walister and Denam – and gasps by the nearby servants as they finally understood what Vyce had declared. He would get no more from these men; Vyce turned away from the ledge and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, surprised at the sudden influx of sweat on his brow. The Walister man's mind had been so focused on his next words, that he paid little heed to his body's impulses. He was almost as tense as everyone else in the room, his nerves frayed, and the heat made his head light and dizzy. Vyce pulled out one of his daggers from his belt in case one of Denam's more stubborn supporters decided an assault would be beneficial, and pushed his way through the people in the Hall once again as he made his way back to his room, where he had earlier prepared his few belongings in a large sack meant for travel.

To Vyce's relief, the hall that led to his room was relatively empty save for a few servants. He pushed the door open, dagger still in hand, and glanced around quickly. Relieved to see that his room was safe, he barred the door behind him and allowed himself to fall back onto it to relax and calm his nerves. If only for a moment, Vyce was desperately tempted to crawl in bed and rest, but he knew he would not be able to – not for hours yet, if ever again. He had not felt such stress since he fled the Resistance the first time; it was almost welcome and familiar, an old friend that he missed, even if he knew he would soon come to dread it. Alongside his anxiety came newfound hope; he had not realized how dead he felt under the Resistance. Shared goals or no, there had been no passion, no desire to fight Denam's battle. In the Alliance he truly had a chance to lead and make a difference for his people and fight for what he truly believed in, not a goal that would serve to hinder his people.

Vyce spoke the voice that many feared to say aloud, but believed with all their hearts. He spoke for those who could not defend themselves against the ravages of the Bakram and Galgastani. He spoke for a shattered people, pulled apart by the Lodissians, Galgastani, Bakram, and even the very Resistance they had found such hope in. 'Twas just as Leonar said: the commons had to take power from below, it could not be given. Vyce was the one who would lead the grasp for the future of his people, even if he must reject his friend and Catiua once again to do so.

And truly, there was no greater honor for him than that.


	7. Lightning

From a technical standpoint, the dialogue in this chapter was very difficult for me to get right, being rewritten and reorganized multiple times. I hope I've done justice to the scene.

_**Lightning **brings light into even the darkest of skies._

* * *

><p>The night was chill, far chiller than it had any right to be given the time of year and her location in central Valeria. They were not on Exeter, even in the darkest of night, so late 'twas well into the morning, Catiua should not have been able to see her breath in the light of the single torch the duo carried between them. With her thick dress and layers of underclothes, Catiua would have thought herself well-prepared for such conditions, only to find her assumptions proven unpleasantly incorrect. The Princess had no idea how Andoras walked about with no shirt, she would have frozen to death.<p>

Part of the problem was her, perhaps, as she had not slept in what felt like a week. More realistically, only two days had passed, but she traveled only on her last reserves. Andoras was in far better shape than she, especially after Catiua had been coerced into spending much of her time indoors, away from travel or even the practice field. She was no longer as slim as she had been when she moved and fought constantly with the Resistance, but she did not complain; she was much healthier than when Denam provided for her. Her exhaustion had begun to set in and her weary body no longer had the strength to fend off the cold. Fortunately, when she had more recently asked, Andoras had told her they would arrive at their destination – Rhime, oddly enough – within a few hours. That had been some two hours earlier, her sore feet, heavy from the armor that wrapped about her boots, ad her sore shoulders, burdened from how they carried her large satchel she refused to leave at Barnicia, could not last much longer. Her muscles burned with a soreness that only large doses of herbs had been able to alleviate.

In the distance, Catiua heard the first sound that was not the crunch of the duo's footsteps against twigs and fallen leaves in what seemed to be half a day. 'Twas faint at first, almost like a distant breath, but she definitely recognized the sound of the sea, the waves as they crashed upon craggy, steep walls. There was no doubt what that meant; Rhime was one of many of Valeria's port cities, if they had finally approached the coast, then they would soon reach their destination. Unfortunately for her, even though she knew their goal, she still had no idea why they dragged her about and her companion had certainly been no help in the matter.

Andoras was an odd one, forthcoming and open, if a bit prideful and he was perhaps the most truly respectful towards her of all of the Dark Knights Loslorien. She secretly compared him to Vyce, as the man was pulled along in a current he might not necessarily have agreed with but followed for the betterment of his country. Whenever asked, he answered her questions with what appeared to be honesty and she had been able to glean at least a bit of insight into Tartaros's motives from their short discussions during their rest from him. From what the woman could tell, the Dark Knight had little more information on the subject than she did, but he had a way of easy evasion that she often did not notice until 'twas too late.

"What are we to do in Rhime? It is not Bakram territory." She murmured as soon as she caught her breath when Andoras eventually slowed. She had been right, they definitely approached their destination. Far in the distance she could see a few speckled torchlights, little brighter than the stars in the sky. The man's breaths were not nearly as ragged as hers, but she could still sense some weariness in his strangely-accented voice.

"I'm not here to ask questions, Catiua. The High Champion did not deem me worthy of such elaboration." There was definitely spite there, he did not even bother to hide it. She found his distaste understandable; he was supposed to be an equal, trusted, yet he was given orders that were to be followed blindly as if he was no more than a lowly squire.

"If I am going to be paraded like a tool, I'd at least appreciate some information on the circumstances to prepare myself with." She snapped with unnecessary force. Her weariness made her moody, not to mention the time for her blood approached.

"Of course, but I've no information to give." From the faint light beside her, she saw Andoras shrug. The bright moonlight in the clear sky gave her a visual of the frown on his features, as if he seemed troubled by something. "I do know, however, that Balxephon had some hand in this. And whatever honey Balxephon has his hands in, you just know there's a bear waiting about somewhere."

The Princess was not quite sure what a 'bear' was, probably some foul beast from Andoras's homeland or Lodis's Galius, but given the subject she imaged it to be quite intimidating. Balxephon was a good actor, better than anything Tartaros was capable of. She remembered how kind and respectful he had been to she, Denam, Vyce, and Leonar when they arrived in Phidoch; as she had returned with Tartaros as an ally, he frightened her. He was cold, distant, and always looked at her with eyes that calculated, as if she was no more than a mere pawn. Recently, he had spent hours questioning her about Denam, their relationship, and his past actions, as if to pick apart her once-brother's weaknesses. The Princess had indulged him the best she could for a time, but his questions had eventually bordered on distasteful and she shut him out. "Balxephon? Not the High Champion?"

"Make no mistake, Balxephon would not act without the High Champion's leave in matters of such import. The question is 'why?' For that I've no answer. This all seems quite counterproductive." And that was all he had to say on the matter. His pace quickened and Catiua almost had to run to catch up. Andoras moved swiftly towards the light of the city and soon Catiua could see the faintest outline of walls; the night was far too dark to give her a clear view of how close they were, but she could tell it rapidly approached.

"Be silent. We want as few to see us as possible." Andoras whispered as they eventually drew close to the city, within range of the oversized bonfires that marked the northern gated entrance. Her escort tossed their torch into the large bonfire outside the city that was used as a marker, now that 'twas no longer necessary, so that they could more easily enter unmolested. Andoras was experienced in such sneaking, and Catiua was not entirely ignorant in the art, and the two were able to enter with little difficulty, with no little thanks to the guards who did not seem to care about who entered and left either way. They were not there to stop travelers, only monsters and brigands. Also to their benefit was that the guards were tired, likely near the end of their rounds as they simply rested against the walls, and did not bother to take a closer look at the two new guests. If they had, the entire city would have been roused in an instant at the sight of Lodis's presence. Instead, they simply nodded as Andoras and Catiua walked past, though, to both of their surprise, one did offer directions, to which Catiua declined; Andoras's accent was too foreign, 'twould have been obvious he was out of place. Catiua's more neutral accent gave her free reign to walk most anywhere on the isles, save perhaps Coritanae when under Balbatos's strict control.

They made their way through the silent, dark city and kept to the shadows, out of the main streets. Catiua looked to the sky for a brief moment and saw that it had lightened to a deep purple from its previous black, a sign that the sun would rise. The two had arrived in Rhime just in time, it seemed, and they did not actively have to hide to travel its roads. The foreign man seemed to recite directions off in his head, as he was entirely unfamiliar with the area and their goal; Catiua could have sword he took two or three wrong turns before they, some time later, arrived at what appeared to be an Inn. There were no torches outside, but the large windows held a bright light within them that pierced into the black streets; Catiua assumed the common room was near the entrance from such light at an early time. The sign in front of the building was relatively unreadable in the darkness, but she could make out the word "Inn" on it. There was no doubt that this was their goal.

"Keep your face to the side. Do not let anyone recognize you." Andoras spoke quickly the moment before he pushed the door open. 'Twas well-oiled and made no sound, but Catiua blinked and pressed her eyes closed rapidly at the bright, offensive light that burned into her. The Inn smelled lightly of smoke from the large fireplace near the entrance, but she more strongly smelled incense, a mixture of pleasant herbs and spices that reminded her of the satchel she carried around when she had acted as a Priest. Now said satchel held only her few favored belongings, too precious to give up; she unintentionally brought her hand to it in reassurance. As ordered, Catiua turned her face to the side and examined the ground, in attempt to look interested in the Inn rather than as if she purposely avoided attention. The Inn's wooden floors were well worn, but nicely polished, and the rug's weave was quite complex and extravagant; this place must have cost quite a bit to rent a room in.

"Welcome. . .weary travelers." From her left she heard footsteps approach - the Inn's patron, no doubt, as the entryway and common room appeared otherwise empty so early in the morning. She sounded cautious, especially as she saw how strange her guests were. 'Weary travelers' was likely the kindest phrase she could think of to describe them. "Have you come for a room?"

"We sent a missive in reservation some time ago. Someone awaits us that should already be here, I believe. Loeher." When he wished to do so, the foreigner was a good actor who spoke with utmost confidence. Though the Princess did not look at the woman, Walister, no doubt, she could sense her hesitation and fear, possibly even distaste, as she breathed deeply in.

"Ah, yes. You. . .fit. . .the description." Catiua heard the woman rustle through the nearby desk where she kept the keys before she walked back over. "Your room is on the second floor, second down to the left." The only evidence that she handed her companion keys was a soft click. "Rest well." Her last words seemed forced and rushed, as if she wanted to deal with the duo as little as possible. Catiua could hear her footsteps disappear into the distance as Andoras grabbed her hand. She kept her face down, her bangs obscured her face and features as best she could and allowed the man to guide her up the stairs.

"'Twas easy enough." She whispered once they reached the upper floor. The Bakram had not expected entry into Resistance territory with so few issues, let alone her shock that no-one questioned them. Her eyes quickly darted up and down the halls, plain, off-white things with foreign, flowery vases and fine portraits and colorful rugs, and saw no one was about – either because of the hour or because of the war. She allowed herself to look up and glance at her male companion, who walked over to the second door on the left, as they'd been instructed.

"We're lucky; the owners of this Inn act as whisperers." Andoras efficiently stuck the key into the lock and manipulated it with a pleasant 'click.' He pushed the door open, posture defensive, and gave her a look that told her not to move. The Princess nodded obediently in return as Andoras entered the room and she waited in the hall; he checked for any threats that could have awaited her or chances of betrayal by the Innkeeper. She knew she would be allowed to enter as soon as he declared the room safe. With patience that surprised even her, Catiua leaned against the wall near the door with a subtle pleasure, glad to have at least some weight off her sore, blistered feet. She closed her eyes, which had quickly adjusted to the well-lit Inn, and waited the few moments for Andoras's return. He came back quickly, as expected, as Catiua's breath had relaxed almost in a doze, before she lazily looked over to him as he held the door open. She smiled, to which he responded with a small smile of his own as she walked into the safe room. He was truly the warmest of the commanders of Loslorien. If there were any friends she had within their ranks, he would have been counted among them. "Balxephon has been here for a time, he'll watch you once he awakens."

He spoke without care as he pulled the door closed behind him and locked it with the key. The guest chamber was cool, but not nearly enough to chill her as the outdoors had. The room smelled pleasant, like the wood of the floors and walls had recently been replaced, but was very dark and she could not define the subtleties, such as color or ornaments. When Andoras walked over to the table to light the tallow with a small burst of Fire magic, Catiua glanced about the room as best she could. There was no water or wine on the table, as she had expected, but the couch looked incredibly inviting to her travel-weary form. She was far too dirty to get into the bed she knew was in the side chamber, no matter how much its siren song called to her, and instead immediately walked over to the large, expensive couch, a pink thing, faded from years of use, it sat in front of the large fireplace, which did not burn.

"Rest, Catiua." Andoras vocalized her thoughts. The Princess had traveled without a full night of sleep over the last few days and she wanted little more than to curl into a ball and sleep all day long. Without bothering to remove her gloves, hat, or boots, Catiua fell onto the couch, apathetic to the way the metal of her armor dug into her, and laid back. As she closed her eyes and slowed her breaths in preparation to sleep, she heard the Dark Knight speak quietly, but barely comprehended the words in her woozy state of mind. "I can't guarantee how much time you'll have to do so later."

* * *

><p>"Ah . . .Sir Balxephon?" Said man grunted and looked up. His body language did not seem annoyed, but a part of her knew he was ; perhaps frustrated was the better word. The Lodissian acted more oddly than she could ever remember, as if whatever was on his mind troubled him more than he would dare admit, even to himself.<p>

Andoras had been long gone by the time she awakened - or, more accurately, Balxephon awakened her. She was still extremely tired; even the Knight Commander had waited to waken her until two hours before midday, she was still very behind on her sleep. The stubborn man had been firm on the matter, to the point where he refused to even allow her to doze as he told her, much to her consternation, to 'wait until later.' The Dark Knight apparently had something planned for her, but when she had questioned him, he refused to elaborate on what. Instead he continually fell silent despite how much she prodded at him. His body language indicated that she was no more than an annoyance, a buzzing insect, and stared through the room as if she was not there until she changed the subject. The Princess had eventually taken out her small satchel and picked through her few herbs that she kept with her, mostly in case of an emergency. Some of her favorite were a particular drug that raised alertness and gave her energy. They did not remove one's tiredness, simply made the body ignore it as it sped up internal biological systems. The end result was that her weariness had faded, but would come back threefold later in the day when the drug passed through her system. She had taken a bit much, perhaps, and was jumpy, her eyes moved rapidly about, but her alertness allowed her to push away the earlier exhaustion.

"Yes?" He was not exactly unpleasant and such a description of him such would have been an insult; other than his flippant behavior, he made no hostile motion against her, nor did he act as if she was a burden. He was simply distant - and most definitely pretentious. As soon as Balxephon had awakened her, he had brought her water to drink and told her to clean herself from her journey. She certainly had no qualms about the latter; she felt as if there was a thick layer of mud and grime and sweat over her and she no doubt smelled unpleasant. The Lodissian was a man with a keen eye for foresight and, by the time he finally decided to rouse her, had already warmed the water in the tub with his magic. The prolonged bath after such travel was wonderful, even paradise, as she rubbed her sore feet and muscles and washed her hair and sweat-soaked body. The change in her undergarments and clothes had been welcome and, paired with her herbs for both muscle pain and alertness, Catiua felt refreshed, much like a different woman than she had been when she arrived earlier in the day with Andoras.

"May we eat?" She asked cautiously, not sure what the man would say to it. Had she questioned Tartaros, she knew he would have summoned servants for her with no question, but Balxephon was far more foreign to her, and he seemed to have a staunch purpose in Rhime that refused to allow him such acts of kindness.

"No." Catiua balked at his flat denial and immediately reassessed her opinion of the man. She could not remember the time anyone, even Denam, had spoken to her in such a way. As with before, he did not seem rude, more as if he scolded a small child of no more than five years. "You will eat at midday." He elaborated, as if 'twas all she needed to know.

"I. . .see." The Princess was no fool and decided not to press the subject as to not annoy the already-testy man. The midday meal was not far off, as it had taken her a half-hour before she had fully wakened enough to get off the couch and well over another hour to clean, clothe, and groom herself. With any luck she would eat within no more than thirty minutes. As she mused, she understood Balxephon's earlier annoyance with her. She had come across as childish and impatient; she deserved the tone he had used.

"Hmm." To Catiua's surprise, rather than a simple lapse into silence, as she expected, Balxephon examined her. His dark eyes did not blink as they roamed over her features before he allowed a smile, one that at first glance appeared kind, but upon closer examination was simply feigned and apathetic, to cross his lips. "Princess, I've business to attend to temporarily; I will return as quickly as possible." His voice turned stern for emphasis. "Do not let anyone in. I've a key in my possession, I can open the door for myself." Catiua blinked in surprise at his sudden decision to leave, but nodded nonetheless. Balxephon's adamant refusal to call her anything but 'Princess' irritated her; 'twas as if he did not see her as a person. Some of the other Dark Knights had been the same, Oz and Ozma, for example, but theirs was more out of distance than Balxephon's condescending use of the title. Her time with Tartaros and Andoras had given her a respect for such basic kindnesses such as being called by her name and she started to see how others could use a title as mockery.

"Understood, Sir." She responded as confidently as she could. The Dark Knight continued the odd way he sized her up for another moment before he finally grunted in return and turned away, seemingly satisfied that she was truthful. The man pushed himself away from the small table, his empty cup of water forgotten, and simply walked from the room, footsteps quiet despite his armor.

The room was silent after he exited, but the Princess was only relieved at the change, as if some tension she had not earlier recognized had shattered. She paced back and forth through the room in the bright sunlit window with little care on her mind. She had long since given up any attempt to understand the ranked Lodissians and why they acted the way they did; there were not only cultural differences that separated them, but, more, she found herself annoyed by their constant twisted words and subtle political dissonance. She pretended she never saw it, but the Princess had quickly learned that Tartaros's Loslorien was not nearly so united and efficient as it first seemed. Arguments between commanders were common, and there were clear factions – but Catiua had never been able to define their boundaries or their reasons. She had no doubt Tartaros knew about them as well, but he seemed, or at least pretended to be, confident enough that they would do no harm in the long run and left them to their own devices.

Bored with her paces, Catiua looked out over Rhime through the window. The day was warm and beautiful, with sunlight that practically reflected over the buildings, roads, and rooftops. Her room faced away from the docks, else she might have been able to see the Obero far off in the distance, instead she saw only green against the horizon. She watched as the people walked through the streets, their paces moderately rapid, as they acted out their daily routines. As she examined the buildings, she saw very little evidence of the Lodissian and Bakram attack that she knew had damaged to city to some extent. There was little else of interest and the Princess found herself bored again quickly, one city was much like another from an Inn window; one did not recognize the differences until one traveled about. She walked over to the chair the Lodissian previously was at and sat down and pushed his empty cup away. She continually crossed and uncrossed her legs, stretched, and fidgeted from her earlier herbs, now more a curse than a blessing, and from her boredom.

No more than five minutes later, Catiua noted the lock on the door shook as if manipulated. She instinctively grasped at her dagger on her belt and channeled her magic, prepared to defend herself if necessary. She knew the visitor was more than likely Balxephon, but she was not fool enough to be caught unawares in case 'twas an intruder. A moment later, as expected, Balxephon pushed his way into the room, an unreadable expression on his face. It seemed he had finished whatever his business was and had finally returned to claim her for whatever he planned – preferably a midday meal.

"Princess." Balxephon's voice was cool, moreso than normal - only accented by his foreign manner of speech. He remained near the door leisurely, as if to block entry or exit. His entire manner disturbed her more than she would admit, as it felt both tense and relaxed at the same time; he had returned quickly, far too much so, and seemed almost suspicious; the back of her mind echoed Andoras's warnings about how dangerous the Lodissian was. She looked up from the table in his direction, but could not meet his eyes. The Dark Knight did not particularly seem to care about her insubordinate refusal to acknowledge him as he continued to relax, the previous tenseness in his body gone replaced with something Catiua could not determine. The Princess clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to look away in irritation that she could not describe the reason for; Catiua had never been so disgusted by anyone in her life, not even Denam or Tartaros. She was no more than an item to serve his whims. He did not see her, Catiua doubted the man even knew anything about her beyond her name and her bloodline, he saw what she was capable of and cared little for what she wanted, only that it served his ends. She loathed him and in a bout of brash emotional outburst, she made absolutely sure Balxephon knew her thoughts on the matter with a vehement frown and hostile body language. As if he could read her mind, his voice held a tinge of amusement. "Your visitor has arrived."

Catiua's attention was on the Dark Knight immediately, as his words were the last she would have expected and definitely not what she thought he had planned for her. Tartaros never allowed her 'visitors' beyond her servants and some of the ranked Lodissians, so what did Balxephon plan? Did the High Champion know of it? She could not stop her eyes from widening but did not reply. The Lodissian seemed amused at her reaction as he turned back, seemingly pleased with himself. "Come." He murmured to whoever waited outside and opened the door. Catiua cautiously, and with no little curiosity – but she knew better than to fall for the man's games, looked in the direction of whatever guest Balxephon. The person entered, respectfully, obviously a man, with his head downwards; as he approached, steps undeterred by the foreign room and stride long, her mouth dropped open at what she saw. She had to dream, what she saw was impossible. The Princess went so far as to rub her eyes, but nothing she did could remove the sight in front of her.

"What. . .?" She spoke less a word and more a simple sound of confusion that was unintelligible to all but her other than its intention. She forced her mouth closed and her breaths to start as she looked over her guest. 'Twas impossible for Denam to be in Rhime with the Lodissians. Why had Balxephon allowed him a 'visit?' Catiua's mind raced as question after formless question coursed through her mind. Her thoughts quickly became a blur and Catiua found herself unable to move as she watched Balxephon murmur quietly to the man she once called 'Brother'; the younger man's obedient, silent nod of response told her more than she liked to know about their relationship.

Denam approached her confidently, without the caution, or even humble shame, she expected from him given their last argument. His face was expressionless and as chill as the Brigania flats; to her great apprehension, she found she could read none of the man's emotions. The Bakram woman felt as if a wall had been erected between them, one of both their making, as thick and powerful as the legendary orichalcum, impossible to tear down. This was not the Denam she knew; his once-soft features had hardened in a perpetual frown, the lines around his eyes aged him at least three or four years, and his confident manner had completely overwritten his younger self, which had been conflicted and troubled, yet stubborn in his pursuits. The man she saw before her was close to no-one, whose life existed solely for his position. Catiua found she could not face him, his aura intimidated her in the same way Tartaros's once had. She turned her face away and forced her breaths out as calmly as she could, unsure of what to do or say, if anything at all.

The Resiatance's commander stood in front of her chair and looked down on her with eyes that barely blinked. A year past, Catiua would have felt a tremor run through her under his gaze, one she remembered vividly from Balmamusa, instead she strengthened the will she knew she had somewhere within her and pretended he had no effect on her. If he truly was Denam, not simply some Ogre who wore his skin, he would have seen her moment of weakness and fragility, yet the man showed no recognition or even care about her fears. Catiua did not know whether to be angry – how dare he come to her now? - , distressed, for the broken bonds that had once been key in their life, or fearful for whatever his intentions towards her were. Balxephon remained near the door and made no effort to intervene. Catiua stole a glance and looked towards the Dark Knight almost pleadingly, but the Lodissian made no move to save her or interfere with Denam and Catiua's silent conversation, if it could even be called such.

Catiua tried to find words, but none came. Her mind could barely control its emotions, let alone form complexities on her tongue. She likely looked like a daft child, one incapable of its own thoughts, as she watched as Denam, still silent, kneeled before her. Her eyes ran over his clothes and body for the first time; his hair had grown out in the scales since she had seen him, slightly longer and more formal than it had been before, but he remained well groomed and shaved. He chose to wear no armor and instead donned a formal off-white top with brown trousers that did not look particularly fine with his hair color. He never had been one for fash- Catiua pushed the thought away, furious at her curious examination. Denam was no longer her brother, he had abandoned her; what did she care how he looked and groomed himself? The Resistance commander lowered his head and closed his eyes; had it been any other time, he Catiua would have believed him to be deep in thought. His silence spoke more words than any verbal language could, but Catiua could not define their meaning. Time passed as if through tar while Catiua sat uncomfortably in her chair and Denam remained kneeled, as if he awaited something. He did not move or show any impatience – a trait that had always differed between the two. 'Twas Balxephon who finally broke the tenseness in the air with a sharp tone that conflicted with his normally-calm voice. The elder man held back his annoyance well, but Catiua could tell he was agitated with her. "Stand Princess, your subject wishes to show his loyalty."

Catiua blinked. Numbness spread throughout her body as she pushed herself up, almost instinctively, in obedience at the Dark Knight's firm words. She did not understand their meaning, but in her confusion such orders were a relief, as they were easily – mindlessly - acted upon. She heeded the elder male because his words broke up her sense of uncertainty, as if he understood the situation and her hesitation. Though she would never admit it aloud, the Lodissian commander's confidence instilled her with some of her own in this time when she needed it most in a similar way to how Denam's presence used to. She hated herself for it. The Princess looked down at Denam, who finally spoke as she stood above him, as if 'twas a trigger.

"I, Denam Pavel. . ." Denam's words were collected and confident, loud enough only to be heard by Catiua and Balxephon, but held a breathy wistfulness. The moment of hesitation after his name and the next words was unnoticeable to all but her, but she definitely heard it. ". . .swear, with the Great Father as my witness, to Her Highness Versalia Oberyth."

The words echoed through her as wind would a large cavern. Denam. . .Denam had just sworn his loyalty to her. A simple oath, true, but from what she understood, and had been told, the simplest of oaths bound the speaker most thoroughly. The oathsworn's words did not promise devotion or loyalty, but was instead encompassed all; everything was expected of him and he could not deny her wishes. The Princess's mouth parted slightly, unsure what tradition demanded she say. What was appropriate for a Princess to do when one gave her an oath of such importance? She knew nothing, she could rationalize nothing; none of it made any sense to her and she was completely unprepared for whatever she had been subjected to. _What did Denam want_? The back of her mind was ready to cry out in relief, for it spoke whispers about how Denam had come because he needed her and that he wanted to devote his life to her. Nothing would have made her happier no more than three scales in the past, soon after she had sided with Loslorien, but as she looked down – as Versalia the Princess, not Catiua the Priest - at the top of the head of the Resistance commander she felt little more than a cool, distant apathy with the more logical part of her mind. Denam would not have come unless he had a reason to; he would not have given into the Lodissians, as it appeared at first glance. But even the most rational part of her mind had no explanation for Denam's presence alongside Balxephon. . .the thought that the two plotted together, and the implications, frightened her.

"Again. This time, as we discussed." Balxephon's agitation was obvious, no longer hidden behind any façade of tolerance or respect, as he spoke to Denam. The Resistance commander glanced to the side at the Loslorien commander, who stood to his far left, Catiua's right, before he nodded and again lowered his head. Denam spoke differently the second time, his voice lower, the words barely audible at all. Even no more than a pace away Catiua could not make them out.

"I, Denam. . ." There 'twas again, that hesitation. This second time was at the name rather than at the oath. She did not understand the man at all; neither his actions nor his reasons. Nothing made sense, and what little she could piece together sent a chill through the Bakram woman. His mumbles continued, more prolonged the second time through the words. His words distracted her and she immediately forgot about the earlier hesitation as she attempted to wrap her mind around the implications of his new oath. ". . .swear . . .Great Father. . .and in service. . .Holy Lodissian. . .Highness Versalia Oberyth." Catiua would swear he spat the words out, even if neither his tone nor his manner spoke of distaste or anger. The Princess disliked the realization that she was so attuned to the man, even after her departure.

As he finished, Catiua looked down, her eyes refused to blink. No longer did anything in the room matter but she and Denam in a short instant, no more than three breaths long. The Princess ignored the heat of the Inn, the sound of the fireplace, the feel of the warm, humid midday air of the room. She looked down on the top of Denam's head baffled; some part of her wanted to scream, another part wanted to cry. The words confirmed her fears; he had sworn to Lodis, the oath said as much.

"There's a good lad." While Catiua had sat there like a fool, Balxephon had approached. Oddly enough, his earlier expression of worry seemed to have disappeared, replaced with what she would have described as relaxation, as if something that had troubled him had passed. He pretended Catiua did not exist and patted Denam's shoulder; the commander barely reacted to the almost-fond motion and instead pushed himself off the ground to stand. His features were blank and remained as unreadable as when he first entered, for the brief moment she saw them, as he turned around to face the Lodissian. The men shared a silent look and the Bakram woman felt as if they spoke a different language, or perhaps 'twas a conversation she could not hear. It was very unlike the way Vyce and Denam communicated – where Vyce understood Catiua and Denam's actions through experience, Balxephon was more distant, yet still was somehow able to read Denam's intentions. "Remember-"

"I know." Denam cut the elder man off but kept his eyes on him. The words were clipped, as if he had repeated them over and over recently and had no desire to do so again. Again they shared looks; Catiua's hackles rose only further as the situation worsened into territory she had no control over.

"Of course." For the first time since Denam's arrival, Balxephon turned his attention fully onto Catiua. He gave her a brief nod and motioned to the other man. "Princess, Denam is going care for you from now on. I assume you'll be agreeable?" He asked flippantly, as if he requested tea at supper.

"W-What?" The Princess forced her mouth closed but could not control her surprise at his outlandish statement, which only seemed to amuse the Lodissian. Without another word the elder man turned away from the duo. Catiua clenched her fists and breathed heavily; he would not just leave her with Denam, would he? No – certainly not, Tartaros would not allow it; he wouldn't abandon her to-to-to this. . .traitor! But no matter her mental pleas, the Dark Knight made his way to the door utterly assured in his actions. He did not even turn around to offer her well wishes or offer a silent apology as he left; it seemed he did not speak in jest. Catiua, in a burst of panic, screeched out as she rushed towards the door in attempt to reach the Dark Knight, only to find it slammed in her face: "Absolutely not!" She remained on her feet, no more than two paces from Denam, who had moved away from his earlier position in the center of the guest room to lean his back against the table she had earlier sat at. He was just as cold as the Lodissian in the way he kept his distance and Catiua turned with as much grace as she could muster and spoke to the hard man with what little authority she had left after her outburst: "Return me to Barnicia at once."

"You're free to go if you wish." Denam did not even look towards her. His eyes narrowed lightly, but by his reaction, apathy and subtle annoyance, she could tell he was not amused by her words. Again the Princess cursed herself for how well she could read him; she turned away in frustration, she wished their connection gone! It only brought pain and confusion.

She highly doubted the truthfulness of the Resistance commander's words. Even if he did let her leave, Lodis would not. Balxephon likely awaited them immediately outside the door and listened to their emotional conversation for his twisted amusement, to learn her and Denam's weaknesses for his internal book of manipulation. There was too much that did not make sense; Catiua knew she could not act irrationally if she was to escape unscathed from whatever this game was. She had to pry for information, even if that meant the discussion of previous events with the unpleasant, dark man she shared the room with. She could barely stand to be in his presence; no longer was his aura warm and pleasant, one that welcomed her, but one alien, cold, one that spoke of confidence, command, and, more, expectations of obedience. Even the way he spoke, as if he 'allowed' her to leave set her on edge. Catiua was angry that he treated her so distantly, but the quiet, rational part of her mind that was little more than a whisper in a thunderstorm spoke to her and told her that she acted exactly the same as he did, and he had every right to be just as cautious as she. The woman pushed back the thought; there was no empathy for the man that remained within her, she would not allow it to rise. Best return to the previous plan before the niggling doubt reformed itself.

"Why are you here?" She did not turn back towards Denam and instead walked across the room. Had she been a year younger, she would have paced in her nervousness; she needed some outlet to express herself. Unlike Denam, she could not simply hold everything in when anxiety coursed through her, but she was more controlled than she was when younger and simply opted to walk over to the couch and sit down on it, as it turned away from the commander; she could not face him.

"Is it not obvious?" Cold, more chill than even the snowy night when Golyat was attacked. Everything within her froze at the glacial words, ones that simultaneously mocked and questioned. _Her_ Denam would have never spoken to her like such. Catiua unintentionally pressed her eyes closed and silently begged the Great Father for this all to be a dreadful nightmare, one she would wake up from if she wished hard enough.

Wishes rarely came true; the world remained the same even when the Bakram opened her eyes, bit her tongue, and pinched herself in attempt to bring herself back to reality. Denam truly was like _that_ – that same tone Tartaros used with her, the same manner. _No, no 'tis not obvious! _She wanted to cry out in response to his words. Not one part of the day made any sense to her and the longer she spent in Rhime, the darker her thoughts traveled. To her it seemed that Denam wished to torment her; perhaps 'twas not even the true Denam at all, but a shade or an Ogre that took his form. The Lodissians had strange magics, they could have created something to make her obedient. Catiua would have laughed at her irrational conclusion was it any other time, but she certainly had no better ideas. She refused to believe that the man behind her was Denam.

"I prefer to make judgments based off of evidence than come to my own. . .unpleasant conclusions." Her tone was far more controlled than she expected. She had attempted a more sarcastic reply, but her sadness and weariness had turned it demure.

The Resistance commander laughed, an unpleasant sound, not soft or kind. 'Twas nothing like she'd heard from him before. "Is that so?" He sounded incredulous. Catiua's back straightened in defiance at the insult and her jaw clenched; she pressed her hands together almost painfully in her lap as to stop her attempt to clench at the armrest on the couch. She could hardly believe the man's boldness in his insult. She knew he implied she was irrational, but whether or not 'twas true, one did not simply speak such things when they tried to earn favor or forgiveness.

"Do not answer questions with ones of your own!" She instinctively snapped out the words she had been taught while young.

From behind her, she heard Denam shift his weight as he sighed. No longer was it a cool sigh of annoyance, but instead one of weariness. Catiua could deal with that response; the previous iciness sent pain through her, not only hate, but loneliness and despair. When he expressed himself in that manner, 'twas as if she was alone with a stranger; the small sign of weakness from the younger man was a subtle trust. It sparked the tiniest fire of hope in her heart that perhaps the commander had not turned into the beast she saw him as. "What would you have me say?"

The Princess unclenched her hands and looked down at her palms, white from the pressure, as she released a long breath and leaned her head back to look at the ceiling. "The truth." Denam had his ways with fancy words, if she gave him even the slightest opening he would take it. She could not show him her terror, her fury, her loneliness. She sadly admitted to herself that all of the previous emotions had been brought back into her with the reemergence of the man she once claimed to loathe. She still hated what he had done, but with him in the same room with her after so long apart, separated by those who only wished to cause her harm and control her, she felt only relief, even if only in temporary bursts between the radical emotions that fluctuated within.

"I'm here for you. Everything. . .everything is for you." His voice had hardened again, but Catiua knew that strategy. The words were hard because he defended himself; the subject was difficult to speak of, and made him vulnerable. The subtle analysis of his tone took little more than an instant as the Bakram woman's mind belatedly comprehended the words he spoke.

She desperately wished to believe him. A part of her wanted to latch onto his words and hold them close and run over to him and grasp at him and never let go. But she was no fool. She knew Denam's games - after all, he shared most of them with her. "Do not toy with me." She snapped out. That small flame of hope within her turned to ice in anger; he mocked her. He knew what she wanted to hear and he would do whatever it took to please her and win her back to his side. She would not have it, not at all! She was no one's tool; Lodis worked for her ends just as much as she for theirs.

"Catiua –" He tried. There 'twas again: her name. After Balmamusa he had started to call her by Catiua rather than the 'Sister' he named her their entire lives. The massacre had been their first split, one almost as heavy as Vyce and Denam's antagonistic surge. Catiua had persevered only because she knew Denam would have destroyed himself without her, yet in both their anger, they had pushed each other away. After Ronwey had died, the way she had called him 'Brother' had turned purely into sarcasm rather than of fondness, where Denam neglected any of their previous façade of family at all. A large part of Catiua wanted it back; the other part, smaller but more vocal in her emotional state, told her that they were never siblings, they never had been, and never would be.

"I am not Catiua! I am Versalia Oberyth." She snapped out before she could control herself. She regretted it a moment later; no matter what her true name was, she was still Catiua. To think of herself as 'Versalia' was absurd, almost impossible. A score of years she had been Catiua, 'twould take another score more to become Versalia.

"Of course." The dry, apathetic tone had returned. His voice swam in its own cruel sarcasm. "Forgive your humble servant, Your Highness."

The Princess froze in her place, her breaths stopped, her eyes widened. "N-No." The utterance came out unintentionally at her horror. She had never wanted to hear those words, never from him. Never from Denam or Vyce. To be seen as an object, an item of reverence, had been tolerable, she told herself, because she could save others from a fate like Golyat's, but such distance from Denam made her shake and almost brought tears to her eyes. She could not hold back the violent tremor that passed through her body and the loud gasp of internal agony.

She repeated the words over and over again. Denam had sworn his oath of loyalty and his Princess had just demanded to be called by her title; for that she had no one to blame but herself. She had felt alone before, but this new change brought on an old memory, one she thought she had forgotten. When Catiua was a girl, she had read a story about a king who was lonely because of their responsibility and sought a companion to spend the rest of his days with and share responsibility – only to be shattered when he learned the woman he chose was a foul witch who used him for his power. The meaning of the tale had eluded her then, but had become all too clear to her now as the legend turned into reality. She understood the despair of the broken king of the tales. To have the person who was once closest to her speak to her as if she was no longer 'Catiua' at all shook her to her core.

"I'm sorry." At Catiua's obvious distraught outburst Denam spoke quietly, with regret. She heard his footsteps approach, but she could not move, still frozen. She took rapid breaths to calm herself and not let Denam see her weakness, but she knew 'twas too late. A moment later, Denam walked around in front of the couch and kneeled before her, not as a soldier, but as the young man she knew. He took her open hands, limp on her lap in his and whispered as he looked in her eyes, his own pleaded for her to listen and understand just what he said. "I do not lie. Everything I've done is for your freedom and safety."

"I was safe with the Dark Knights!" Catiua pulled her hands away roughly and Denam almost fell backward from her roughness, caught only by a hand to the ground behind him. "You give me no more freedom than however long the leash about my neck is – and that changes when it suits you." She would be little more than a dog, one who followed Denam's will obediently and sniffed for scraps of attention. At least Tartaros did not pretend to care for her; they had a respectful, mutually beneficial relationship where distance was expected. The Lodissian had helped her see the error of her ways and she thanked him for it, he expected loyalty to his cause, but not affection directed towards him. In contrast, Denam hid behind emotions and "morals" in his arguments and debates, and latched on far tighter than any of the Lodissians. If she did not follow him around like an obedient toddler he would have no need or care for her.

"That is why I gave _you_ my oath, then?" His words were accusatory, as if it should have been obvious that he served her now, and would follow her about, not the way it used to be. Catiua did not believe it for a second, Denam had always been the steadfast leader of the group, the one who calmed Vyce, who made decisions for them with relative neutrality, who would parcel out rations when they had so little to eat. He would not easily become submissive, 'twas not his nature, no matter what he claimed. Catiua closed her eyes and looked away; how she wished he told the truth. If she stared at him, she knew she would have appeared as if she begged, as the woman knew she wore her turmoil clearly on her face. Emotions still phased through her, anger and hope, but more importantly, with Denam's close proximity, she could no longer find where thoughts started or ended. The Princess almost wanted to flee to the other side of the room to get the man away from her; with him so near, rational thoughts fell away. "Sister, please. Listen to me." He did not attempt to take her hand again, but he very cautiously placed his hand on her knee from his position on the ground below her. Catiua cautiously looked back down at him; she noted his soft, comforting, use of the title 'sister,' previously abandoned.

"Speak." The look, one of pain, betrayal, and despair hidden behind flat eyes, on his face hurt more than she would dare admit even if she did not understand where it came from. It should be her who hurt, not him! The Princess held back a sob, which ended up more as a loud sniff, before she turned away again. The confusion from the earlier turbulence still burned within, but with Denam closer she no longer felt as if she was so alone. Catiua hated her weakness; she wanted to be free of him, yet all he did was send her into emotional spirals of happiness, hope, sadness, and rage, much like a terrible addictive drug.

"I know I was foolish. What I've done, what I've given up. . .It's too much to ask for you to ever forgive. But I wish to remain by your side." 'Twas too good to be true. She wanted it, she wanted to believe, she wanted to cry and hug Denam as she told him that he spoke only what she had dreamed for. But she also knew that was exactly what Denam wanted. Denam's entire purpose in Rhime seemed to be to win her to his side, she would not simply give in. She did not trust him; their relationship was too broken for that. Denam would hurt her again; he did not understand, nor would he ever. He had taken her for granted in the past; she had no idea how to open his eyes and be assured he would not do so again.

But there was more to it than that. The Resistance commander had come with a purpose, a very set goal. Why had he chosen _now_, when he could have come later? The timing was too good; Catiua had recently declined debate with Balxephon and Tartaros about her people. She would be placed on the throne and would permit Lodis regency and military presence when they desired it, but she would remain steadfast about cultural issues and had spoken openly about how she preferred limited influence. Fortunately, she and many others had been raised under the hand of the Great Father and there would be no conflict with Lodis's religion and the one primarily practiced on the isles, but she still felt uncomfortable with forcing her beliefs onto others, even if 'twas once her solemn duty. The Valerian Isles were not Lodis, nor would they ever be. She wanted the people to remain as intact as possible - she owed herself that much. Balxephon and Tartaros had not been pleased at her stubbornness, and Catiua had firmly grounded her feet on many other issues because of their argument; the men very likely had gone to Denam to request him to "convince" her of the right way of things. "What is your relationship with Balxephon?" She pointedly stared at him as she changed the subject, adequately confident that her emotions were under control. Her rational thought process over Denam's motives had given her some time to calm herself.

For the first time since he arrived, Denam's mask broke; 'twas only for an instant, and unlike before 'twas not half-hearted or subtly hidden. Powerful emotions crossed his features, more fierce than any storm clouds that raged with thunder and lightning. His already-dark eyes darkened and for one brief moment he looks like a small, vulnerable child who wanted to cry. He withdrew almost by instinct before he realized what he did and contained himself. It was the Resistance commander's turn for erratic breaths that he worked to control. "The truth." The man murmured to himself quietly and Catiua was barely sure she heard him right. He seemed conflicted, as if he wanted to twist his words about to make it more tolerable. The Bakram woman's hackles rose at the reaction, and her entire world shattered before her at his subdued, shamed reply. "I've made a deal with him, so that Valeria will have its autonomy."

Catiua refused to believe it. Denam was too stubborn to give into Lodis; alongside Vyce, Loslorien had been his enemy for the last year, their very purpose for fighting – more important than even the Walister, to Denam at least. They had murdered Prancet, all of the civilians in Golyat, and the people of Rhime. The woman refused to believe that the commander had simply thrown those grudges to the side. The Princess knew she should have laughed at her hypocrisy; she had allied with them after all, joined Loslorien, but the thought of Denam doing so reviled her. She could not quite understand why. As the disgust faded, as she knew she had no rational reason for it, another conflict arose. Valeria; Valeria, Valeria, _Valeria_! As she expected, he had not come for her, even if he claimed he did so. He wanted peace, not Catiua. Any earlier fondness that had built up blew away in the wind of her emotions; any fondness within her was immediately snuffed out by anger. She knew that there had been something he hid; Denam had not changed. He did not care, his words were theatre and nothing else. "So. 'Tis the same as before. You're not here for me, but Valeria! You-" Catiua could not stop her bodies tremors of anger and she gripped the side of the couch in order to calm herself, to no avail. "You use me! You are no different than the Lodissians!"

More rapid emotions crossed Denam's face, but they were quickly subverted and controlled, not nearly as pained as the earlier ones "No. I will not force you to do anything you do not wish to do." The Princess wondered if he implied that Lodis forced her into her predicament, for he certainly had not responded to her accusation. Perhaps, she admitted, they were at fault. They would have taken her by force had she not agreed. But Denam was no different; she had pleaded, cried, begged for him to turn back at Balmamusa and he had simply given her a vacant stare. She had almost groveled when she told him she wanted to flee Valeria and live in peace, but he had not listened! No . . .Catiua could admit that Denam had never stopped her. He simply would not have supported her; not that there was much difference. As if the commander shared her thoughts, he broke the uncomfortable silence between the two – yet he still had not denied her earlier words. "Do you still wish to run away?"

"No." _Yes. Please Denam, show me you're still there. _More than anything she wanted the man to give her some sign that he was still the boy she knew – still her brother. If he was, she could accept the small mistakes. He remained distant and, while he was not exactly apathetic, he held metal between the two, a thick wall that was impenetrable by any thoughts and emotions but his own. "I have purpose now." She bluffed. 'Twas not a lie, exactly, as Catiua did wish to rule Valeria. She had the power to help her country and prevent pain such as hers from happening again. She did not – could not – do it alone; she was terrified and lacked any experience in leadership. More importantly, she knew that earlier despair she had felt from being viewed as "Versalia" rather than "Catiua" would only increase if she led alone. A part of her wanted nothing more than to flee, to hide, to be protected by Denam and Vyce, where another part of her knew she had the duty to stay and she could not turn her back on the suffering on Valeria.

"Then I wish to stay with you. Please, sister, come with me. If not for me, then for your purpose; I would help you see it through, whatever it is." Though his tone had finally taken on a warmer tone rather than the cool, even haughty, one he had used earlier, she knew he did it to make her comfortable. Denam was a prideful creature, unaccustomed with begging. The commander had difficulty even with his current words, which were little more than a request, but Catiua had to admit that 'twas what endeared her to some extent. The harsher part of her, more recently manifested and open to influence, wanted to watch as Denam begged on the floor before her – for forgiveness, for her loyalty, for the family he once had. Her attention was drawn to one word of his, no more – she barely heard what else he said, as the thought of family crossed her mind.

"Do not call me that!" Unlike his earlier usage, where she had tolerated the title, Catiua had enough of his games, of how he pretended to care. She was not his sister! Denam had abandoned her and so she had abandoned him in return. Prancet had never been her father – their father, even – it made no sense for their bond to persist. She shook her head with childish ferocity, like a young thing who did not wish to chew the distasteful herbs given to them when they were feverish. Denam had given up his right to be her brother.

"Sister? It is the truth, whether you accept it or not. You bathed me, you fed me, you cared for me, you scolded me, you protected me, and you loved me. What did I do? I suppose not much, now that I think on it – but someday I hope to support you as you do me. Ties of blood be cast into the deepest depths of Hell for all I care of them, you will always be my sister." Denam had stood up then and looked down at her with persistence that frightened her. His desperation had returned, as had the emotions in his voice, and again he took her hands as if to make a point. Catiua could not bring herself to release them at the words that warmed her heart. For how long had she wanted him to say that? But she knew, as she always did – he was so bloody blind, even to his own desires.

"A convenient stance." The sadness seeped into her voice, not a remnant of her previous emotions, but grown anew at the silent promises the commander had spoken. The man was not an Ogre, no, but a shade, one who used his dark magics to read her thoughts and speak her wishes.

"But a truthful one. You will always be Catiua. I love you as Catiua and damn everyone who thinks otherwise – but I am Denam, just a man, not the perfect brother who lives in your head. I care for Catiua the woman, the sister, not Versalia the Princess." He shook his head for emphasis and clutched at her hands with such strength that she couldn't pull away. Perhaps she did not wish to.

"Yet it is Versalia you're here for." She accused as she met his eyes for the first time. Whether or not Denam realized it, she knew 'twas the truth. Some part of her did not blame him; she was a person of power. Power was meant to be used, both by her and others.

"You're wrong. I only wished to see you safe." Somber words from a somber man, his features did not change in the least. Again with the mask! The man frustrated her; the commander was so shrouded by his beliefs and theatres that he had forgone the truth entirely. He had started to believe the lies he lived.

"Perhaps." She looked away, there was no point in the way she continually stared and examined him. The Princess understood; Denam _had _wished to save her, not Versalia, and had gone as far as to deal with Lodis as to do so. What hurt was the brutal truth that he would not have done the same for 'Catiua the woman,' only 'Catiua the Princess.' She could see the truth, clear as the bright blue sky outside the inn; he did feel the remains of a bond with her, but his priorities had changed. "But if I was not Princess you would have waited for later, after the war or until 'twas convenient for you. After all, Valeria is all that shines in your eyes. She might very well be your lover." Catiua found herself controlled, calm, despite her impassioned words. She looked back and lifted her hand, still held in Denam's, and put her finger to his mouth to silence the words she knew were about to come from his lips. "Do not even attempt denial. I speak the truth; perhaps you don't even know it yourself, but none knows you better than I."

". . ." Denam's hand fell away from hers as he lapsed into silence. She could tell he wanted to sit beside her, but Catiua was not comfortable enough with him so close. The Bakram woman was pleased that she had finally gotten to him, that their discussion finally made some progress. While she could admit some things he said warmed and resonated within her, even if she did not believe all of them, Denam, in contrast, was quite the opposite: closed minded, as if very little she said could affect his line of thought. She could manipulate his emotions, but not his beliefs. That changed with her last words; with the way he looked ahead, flatly, she knew she had finally made an impact. His shoulders slumped lightly and he looked to the ground. "Perhaps I. . .Vyce was right." The Bakram did not know exactly what the man meant, but she could guess. The commander's shame weighed heavily on him and Catiua knew 'twas her chance. She could rebuild him, make him understand her. Simple words of apology were empty – he had to know how she felt and what he could truly do to fix what he had caused.

"If I did come with you, what then?" Her voice retained its coolness; she played Denam's game back at him now, with control and a subtle aura of superiority. Their positions had changed. "What if I asked you to abandon your Resistance?"

"The Resistance doesn't exist anymore." His voice was breathy and Catiua felt her control slip in an instant. She gasped; Denam was serious, she could tell, as his head further drooped and his voice had quieted. Questions coursed through her: What had happened? More importantly - where was Vyce? The revelation added layers to the issue of Denam's arrival and alliance with Balxephon and Loslorien; she did not know what it meant, but perhaps, she very cautiously admitted, she had judged him too rapidly. "At least not in any form you'd recognize."

"I suppose Tartaros – or Balxephon, if you would - decided to simply hand me back to you as a sign of goodwill, to unite former siblings?" Her words were not meant to be spoken aloud and came out more sarcastic than she intended. They caught the man's attention, however, and he looked up and attempted to meet her eyes, to which she turned away immediately, his expression worried.

"No. He seeks to use me as he does you." The commander sighed as he shook his head. He pushed himself off the floor from his kneeled position, though he remained stationary.

"And you would allow that to happen?" She demanded in return. The thought of Denam with Lodis sent a chill through her. The thought was abhorrent, horrified her, and, for some reason, it hurt. Denam was not the type to have given up his beliefs so easily; rather than distancing him from her, she found herself closer. The gap between them had narrowed by a few planks of newly built bridge. In this case, perhaps, she was more empathetic than she would admit. Lodis controlled both their lives, it seemed. Catiua would have none of it; she refused to accept the change. 'Twas simply not _Denam._

"And _you_ would?" Denam hissed in anger, voice sarcastic and accusatory, but the pain remained. Catiua withdrew a breath, shocked and scared at the way he spoke. He had never taken that tone before, one filled with such hatred and agony. She could tell he grit his teeth through rapid breaths. Yes, Catiua had allowed Lodis to use her; why should she despise Denam for what she had done blurred before her eyes more. The two fell into silence as Denam turned away. Unable to face her, the man seemed frustrated, incapable of verbal emotional expression. "I'm sorry." Denam apologized again, over and over, as if he could never do it enough. "Catiua, I couldn't save you. I couldn't save Valeria. I couldn't save myself."

There was the tone again; the boyish, fragile words sounded like they could break at any moment. He moved around the couch to a position behind her, his footsteps quiet, and she could hear him as he sat at the table she had earlier been at when Denam and Balxephon entered together. Catiua kept her back to him, unsure of what to say, uncertainty about what he meant coursed though her. He regretted his words and actions deeply, she knew now. Catiua could no longer deny it, with the way he acted. "And you think a simple apology is going to win me to your cause?" Her voice was breathy and almost sounded like a whisper, even though 'twas fully voiced.

"No. Words will satisfy neither of us." He was right; no kind words, touches, or hugs would fix what had happened between them. The scars were too deep, the pain too persistent, infected by a fatal disease, the cure unknown. Catiua noted his words – _us -_. Denam hurt too, just as much as Catiua did. It hit her; no wonder he had been so cold when he entered! He had been angry that she joined Lodis, he felt betrayed, and she had mocked him in front of Tartaros and the very Resistance he commanded. She had wanted to cause him pain, she had wanted to see him despair as much as she did – and she succeeded. How could she have expected him to remain the man he had been, so strong and enduring? She had misjudged him. Again the small flame of hope rose within her heart, stronger than before, more persistent against the wind of anger that had previously blown it out. The commander continued, quietly, then as he gained power, with subtle accusation that only proved her correct. "Earlier you asked what I've done with Lodis; my answer is simple: nothing different from what you have."

"That is no answer." Catiua turned around and accepted the insult, even agreed with it. She glared at the man, who glared right back. The two fell into a hostile silence that radiated through the room.

"Then tell me, Catiua, what are your reasons and how do they differ from mine?"

"You abandoned me." She justified her actions in the same way she always had. Even if he suffered, even if he wanted to save her, Denam would never understand her despair and loneliness. Everything she had been raised for, everything she desired to protect, everything that was her heart and soul had been torn asunder.

"_You _abandoned _me_!" His hiss turned into a hostile sneer of rage and, from her position, he looked as if he wanted to slam his first onto the table in anger. Only his greatest control kept him from lashing out – not at her, but anything that would have taken it. Catiua's eyes widened at the display of anger. For Denam to show open hostility meant so much more than she had ever anticipated, but at the same time she was furious that he would force their issues back on her. Yes, she had abandoned him, but only after he first abandoned her! Denam shook so violently that Catiua could see it from the other side of the room as he pressed his eyes together and clenched his fists. The anger from his voice did not fade. "You are justified in your anger, distaste, hatred. I do not blame you for your rage at all, but you hold against me the same as you've done yourself!"

"You dare speak as if you know me?" She stood from the couch in anger. Her sadness within had all but burnt away; this theatre had gone on far too long and she was right ready to walk out and go to Barnicia alone, if need be. Denam, too, stood and they unintentionally stomped towards each other to face the cause of their anger. They met midway, Catiua's face red, Denam more disheveled than she had ever seen him; both inhabitants practically gasped for breath in their fury.

"I know you better than you know yourself." Denam mimicked Catiua's earlier words. "You left because you were hurt – because you wanted me to feel the same pain you do." Catiua's frown deepened and she silently cursed Denam to the depths of whatever Ogre-infested hole he had been born from. Great Father damn the man for how well they knew each other! "Well, I have. And where has it brought either of us?" Denam turned away from the Princess, unable to face her as he calmed himself with what little self-control he retained. Catiua did not have the same strength; she wanted to scream, to slap him, and tell him how selfish he was, how she wanted to be left alone, and how badly he tortured her, down to her very soul. "I'm angry." He finally whispered, as if he was deeply ashamed of the admission. "I'm upset and, just as you, I feel betrayed – I _was_ betrayed." He turned back around, his face less red, his body less tense, as if he had come to some conclusion in the short moment of silence between them after his outburst. He motioned between the two as he spoke and gave her a look that demanded an answer, not just an evasive accusation. "Do two wrongs make one right? Will the cycle of pain and hatred never end?"

Catiua could think of no words of response. As she turned the thoughts over and over in her head she simply stared ahead at the man in front of her. He did not seem to wish for a reply, even though he examined her with almost as much curiosity as she had earlier examined him. He was right, Philaha damn him, pain only led to more pain, hate to more hate. They had both wronged each other, and more yet more wrongs would not suddenly make their distress disappear. For the first time since he arrived, Catiua felt a brief flash of regret for what she had done to him. The empathy was cautious, as if she put a toe into a large lake. She still did not trust him, even if she now understood more of the man he had become.

"Such fine words. You always had a way with them, so popular and well mannered." The tears fell, little more than droplets from the corner of her eyes, which shocked both her and Denam. She had not thought herself so upset, but she had simply hidden behind a mask of confidence that had shattered with her newfound understanding. "But I will not fall under your sway, the moment I come under your power you will turn your back on me, just as before." She finally spoke the words she hid under her emotions, the ones she had thought over and over since she saw him again. "Did you not even consider my feelings?" She knew the answer; Denam as much gave it to her earlier - no, he had not. The tears flowed deeper and she took a step forward. She could not stop the quiet sob that escaped, but she persisted. Even if she showed weakness, Denam must understand. "I want the old Denam back. The war has changed you and I no longer recognize the man in front of me. The man I loved has gone."

"That Denam is dead. As you demand acceptance and love for who you are, so do I." His words were almost as sad as hers, and just as determined. No - not sad, broken. There was none of the previous competence within him, only a lonely man who looked like he saw far too much of the world.

". . . ." The truth bit through her. Just as the old Catiua was dead, the one who had cared for Denam under Prancet's watchful eye, the one who stood loyally steadfast behind him, the one who wanted nothing more than to be by his side – all gone. While, certainly, traits remained, as did Denam's, she was a different woman now. Both had changed, both knew only their old selves; the new was foreign, alien, and the Denam she saw scared her. There was no doubt he loved her – or who she used to be. Catiua wondered if he could accept her for who she had become, of if he, too, held the same reservations as she.

"I will say it again, over and over until you believe I speak with my heart, even if I must remain in this room until we're both grey:" He spoke rapidly and with finality, a stubbornness that reminded Catiua all too much of Vyce "I love you – but I am Denam, just a man, not the perfect brother who lives in your head." His desperation is obvious; with his heightened emotional state he is the closest to begging as he had ever been. He took her right hand in his to emphasize his point and Catiua did not withdraw. She had claimed the commander saw only what he wanted to see, but how could he see more if she had not allowed him to? War had torn them apart, and, perhaps, war would bring them together again, as man and woman, not brother and sister.

The woman's tears had stopped their flow, but she could still feel the pathway along her face. She brought her left, free, hand on her chest and spoke, whispered words only meant for her to hear, simply so she could simply relieve herself of the troubles on her heart. "What's happened to us? All the war. . .the death. . .the lies. . .I hate it all." She closed the distance between she and Denam, no more than a pace. "Lodis. . .Lodis has taken everything from me." As the Princess admitted the truth to the stoic commander, she felt twisted and warped, as if somehow everything was both real and fake at once. The line between truth and lie, manipulator and manipulated, woman and child, all blurred before her; Lodis had been the catalyst of it all. It had helped her grow, to shed off the skin of the weak girl, but it had tormented her, caused her pain, ruined both she and Denam – Denam, not brother. Perhaps someday they would be as siblings again, but for now, companions. "Denam." With her outburst sated, she spoke again, more firmly than before. Somehow she felt clean, relieved, as if she stepped out from purification at the Hagia a new woman. "Tell me." She spoke with renewed power, her greatest fear, the answer she dreaded more than all, still needed an answer. "Do not play with words – why have you gone to Lodis? You knew the consequences."

"There was no other choice." Catiua felt a powerful flash of déjà vu as her mind echoed the words Denam had spoken to her in the past. Balmamusa, the assault on Coritanae, and how much else? He had said that to her on more than one occasion and it had become his excuse for all of his actions. She felt the familiar pain well within, but not one of hate or loathing, but one of pity. Yes, pity, for Denam who always seemed forced into the worst situations – yet never had the strength to stand up and deal with them with his heart instead of his mind. "I had to save what I could, and to do so meant to sacrifice-"

"There's that word again" The woman interrupted the man with what little remained of her annoyance. He constantly used that as an excuse for his actions, a rationalization that made it seem as if all would be better if he eventually sacrificed everything. He had sacrificed Vyce, Catiua, and from what she could tell, he had sacrificed himself. Catiua could hardly believe how she had missed Denam's obvious self-destructive tendencies. Given what she had seen in the past of his actions, such as the willingness to be slain by Leonar, it should have been clear as day. Did he not understand that he would only lose more if he continued to let the small things slip from his grasp? If he continued to chip away at the rock, 'twould eventually crumble before him. She hated that word; sacrifice was almost a curse and her face turned into a cringe of distaste. "'Tis all you say, over and over as if someday everything will be made better because of it. Do you have _any_ idea what you've done? Any at all?"

Denam's reaction was unexpected; she had expected shame or even anger at her words, but instead gave her a sad, lopsided grin that made him look three years younger than he was. "I could say the same of you." Catiua's eyes narrowed in a severe glare. Had they not just gotten over this? They had constantly put forth the blame on one another and neither benefited from it. She saw his game; his light tone had subtly changed the subject, as if he wanted to avoid a true answer. That he risked conflict with Catiua after the two had taken on a fragile peace told her more than words could: he loathed his actions so much that he would risk their relationship rather than admit them aloud. Some part of her was relieved that Denam did not take on the alliance with Lodis willingly. She continued to glare until the commander sighed deeply, exhaled breath prolonged and hesitant. Finally he spoke, mechanical, as if he recited words from memory or read them from an invisible parchment that she could not see. "_'. . .Open and unconditional support of the Princess Versalia and –'"_

The commander cut himself abruptly and stumbled back, away from Catiua. His eyes stared into nothing and his breath hitched in his chest. His mouth fell open very slightly. Denam's reaction was odd, especially as she considered he seemed fine with the statement less than a half-second before. She knew what he had planned to say, or at least part of it:_ Princess Versalia and Lodis. _But he had been forthcoming about how he had parleyed with Lodis, so that would not have stopped him. He looked as if he had just come to a deep realization that shook him to his core – quite literally, his body quaked with a tremor so violent that she thought he might have fallen over.

"Denam?" Catiua questioned, worry tinged at the edge of her voice. All negative emotion towards the man fell away entirely as he attempted to work his mouth to speak the words. As Catiua approached he moved forwards, towards and past Catiua, and fell against the back of the couch she had earlier been on. "Denam!" She tried again, the panic coursed through her entirely now. No longer did she care about such pitiful things such as "betrayal" or "hate" or even "loneliness." Denam was in despair, worse than she had ever seen before. She could no longer deny her heart cared for the man in front of her, as his pain brought forth powerful empathy she had not felt in years. To see the normally stoic and controlled man in such a pitiful state horrified her in ways she could not describe. Her throat was parched from her earlier tears and her breaths rapid as she approached. "Denam, you must tell me what happened."

"Haha. . ." His laughter was sardonic and dark, cruel and self-loathing. The man – if he could be called such in his pitiful state – moved around the couch as steadily as possible until he fell down onto it. His words were hasty and made no sense. "I see their game now. How could I have been so blind?" He definitely did not speak to Catiua and his words were only spoken aloud to clear his thoughts. 'Their' had to have been Lodis, and the 'game' had to deal with their agreement with him – that much she could grasp from their earlier conversation and what had triggered the outburst. His words shook again as he continued the desperate murmurs. "Even as I gain some foothold of control, my life crashes down around me."

"What. . .?" Catiua spoke quietly, not sure if she should interrupt him – not sure if she wanted to. This was the turning point. If she did not ignore his obvious despair, there would be no turning back; she would effectively forgive him for what he'd done. A part of her was shocked that she even considered the grudge with the man in such a state before her, but her rationality knew better. Still. . .he had suffered through this, all for her. He had wanted her so badly, to save her, to protect her, even if his motives were not entirely pure, that he had broken down and fallen into this abyss of madness. Unlike his kind words before, simple apologies meant to win her over, this was no dream; she felt the strength of his devotion and bond, of how he truly cared but never knew how to show it. When the man was withered on the couch before her, she wondered how she had doubted it in the first place. Denam had never abandoned her; he had always been with her in spirit. She could not bear to see him as such.

Catiua moved around the couch slowly, not sure if Denam would lash out. She doubted it, as he was not violent and erratic when emotional like Vyce, but knew 'twas better to err on the side of caution. Her footsteps sounded loudly in her ears, uncomfortable in the tense silence as she sat down beside him for the first time, close enough in his space that she shared his warmth. The commander had not even acknowledged her presence, he instead kept his head lounged back against the back of the couch, eyes and lips pressed closed tightly, and fingers intertwined in his bangs. Catiua very gently touched his elbow and tugged it towards her; there was no resistance. He simply fell whichever way Catiua pulled him. With all of the affection she had shown when she was young, when Denam cried all night from vivid nightmares that constantly recurred about how he was stolen from his bed by Ogres, she pulled his head onto her lap. His face would have looked up at hers had his eyes been open, instead he simply looked like he rested on a comfortable pillow, his pale hair contrasted against her black dress. She rested one hand in his, which he responded to with a limp grasp, and stroked her other hand over his face as she ran her hands through his hair and scalp. The Princess did not know how long they remained as such, but Denam's pain finally subsided; she knew he had not overcome it, simply pushed it aside, but his returned self-control was acceptable for the moment. She would wait until later to question him more and to try and mend the broken parts within.

"I played right into his hands." He finally whispered as his eyes blinked open for a moment to meet hers, only to close again a moment later as he turned his head away. He did not move from her lap, just was unable to face her. She saw why a moment later, small droplets had formed in the corners of his eyes and he pressed his eyelids closed to push them away.

"You couldn't have known." Catiua did not understand what he meant beyond that Denam felt he was manipulated, by Tartaros or Balxephon most like, much like they had done to her. Very little could bring Denam to tears; whatever his realization was had struck him to his very core. Even if her words were flowery and without meaning, she never wished to see him cry. More silence followed as Denam calmed himself, a process that took longer the second time. Catiua felt tense, her throat was sore from her held back emotions, and her eyes were heavy. From their close proximity Catiua allowed herself a moment to run her eyes over Denam's form again, but from a more personal perspective than the distant one she had before. She understood why he looked older; his face was taut, thin, as if he had not eaten. He was muscled, moreso than she ever remembered, but he lacked weight and likely strength. "You're thin." She murmured as she moved her hand from his hair to his cheeks and the fingers of her other hand over the top of his. Her skin looked almost dark compared to his, pale almost ghost-like color. "You've not been eating." There was no response. "You're pale; you've not slept." She continued with accusation, angry that he had not taken care of himself in her absence. For all the commander berated Vyce for his foolishness, he could barely fend for himself - who was he to speak of others?

"There's not been time." His flat reply was little more than an excuse as he looked back up at her. He no longer looked so pained and Catiua took it that it he was composed, at least for a time.

"As always, you cannot do even the simplest things by yourself." The woman berated her younger as she pushed him up lightly. He obediently lifted himself off her without hesitation, but Catiua immediately missed his warmth. He remained seated, blinked, and looked around the room as if in a daze, as he saw it truly for the first time. Catiua took the initiative; if Denam would not take care of herself, she would. She stood from the couch and in front of the man. She offered her hand, which he pointedly ignored in his stubborn, chivalrous way of his that refused to accept Catiua's help no matter the situation. Finally he stood on his own, the weakness gone. "Come, let us go downstairs for the midday meal." 'Twas a bit late, but she finally understood Balxephon's earlier declaration; he had expected Denam and Catiua to eat together. His denial made sense.

"Wait." Denam had not moved from his location one pace away from the couch. His fists were clenched, but if she judged his body language correctly 'twas in determination, not in sadness or anger. He turned towards her, his passive mask back on his features, but his words held his emotions, and walked over. As he had earlier, Denam grasped at Catiua's hands and held them between the two. They were sweaty, but neither particularly cared. "I said it before, but I'm sorry. I thought of saving you – but I never thought '_what if she wishes to remain?_' I wanted to put you on the throne, but never once did it cross my mind that '_perhaps she does not wish to be Queen_.'" He frowned at his own oversight before his features replaced the dour look with a soft smile, one that warmed her to her core. The smile was the Denam she knew; even if he had changed, there was still a part of him she recognized. It comforted her to see the small boy she had grown up with still existed, somewhere, within the cool adult he had become. "I wish to serve you, at your side, but not as 'Commander' - as 'Denam'. After all" Denam laughed mockingly, in defeat "the commander is bloody incompetent and blind to what should be most obvious."

"'_Two wrongs do not make one right.'_" Catiua recited Denam's earlier words. She had hurt him, he had hurt her. Causing pain to Denam again, especially after she saw his mental instability, was pointless and cruel. Catiua was many things, but she would never be apathetic; her empathy and emotions got her into her situation in the first place. 'Twas time for forgiveness, or at least, a new start. "I cannot hate you. I-I'm sorry too. I betrayed you, I desired to cause you pain – and I did. Just as with you, words cannot make up for what I've done." She clutched his hands tightly as she led him towards the door. "Let us start anew." As Denam and Catiua, as people, not siblings by name alone, without the pressure exerted by the titles they held since before they could remember. The Princess's constant pursuit of the commander as her 'brother' had been what tore them apart, as if she had been forced by her duty to follow, not by affection or even shared goals. She wanted their relationship to be willful; it meant nothing if they were together but could not stand each other. "But enough of this." She pulled him into the hallway; she abided no complaints or his stubborn denial otherwise that she knew awaited her if she allowed him a single moment his way. "Come, let us eat."


	8. Calm

This may come off as short and somewhat filler-like, but it's intended to elaborate on several subtle points in Denam's treatment of Catiua, as well as an attempt to make Catiua's character progression more natural than the rather drastic change we're shown in-game. I admit, I've put some intricacies into Catiua's personality, be sure to look for them.

"_What do they wait for, Abuna? Me? Or something they imagine to be me?" – Denam, Lord._

_**Calm**_

* * *

><p>"Is there anything else, Your Highness?"<p>

Catiua tapped her fingers against the small bedtable to her right in barely-concealed annoyance. Not even twelve hours had she been in Phidoch and the servants already fawned over her like vultures to a half-decayed carcass. Her very presence set them into motion as each attempted to glean the most gossip as possible from even the slightest slip of tongue. The Princess found them thoroughly obnoxious, but no different from the servants who had served her previously in Phidoch, Heim, or Barnicia, wherever the Dark Knights had herded her for their purposes. Had Tartaros not spent nearly a scale instilling the necessity of servants - or, in Lodis's case, slaves - as the representative of her new social class, into her, she would have ordered them away entirely; she would have much rather served herself than dealt with them.

It seemed like almost an eternity before the servants had finished their prolonged grooming session; though she had absolutely refused to allow them to bathe her, she had finally relented in their persistent demands that they style her hair, rub lotion on her skin, groom her nails, and get her measurements so that they could order her new clothes, if necessary. Catiua had never been known for her self-control, she what little she had was frayed to the very ends, ready to split down the middle at any moment. The servants gave Catiua her space as she stood and walked about the room, her arms stretched above her head with a decided lack of grace, before she closed her eyes and spoke with as much of a 'regal' tone as she could muster. For that matter, what defined 'regal'? Firm? Stubborn? She'd have to experiment on what worked to provoke the best reaction. "Where is Denam?" was all she demanded to test the waters. She did not want any more from the servants than necessary, and, more importantly, she felt incredibly uncomfortable with the way they treated her.

Catiua knew Phidoch well, most likely almost as well as Denam, and she had made the mistake of telling him that – Denam had take than as meaning that she did not need elaboration on the locations where he ordered his troops sleep, his captains, or, most importantly, where his room was. When the duo arrived, early into the evening of the previous night, there was no grand celebration as she had almost been expecting, nor had there been any heed to her presence at all. Quite the opposite, the Resistance soldiers had warmly and respectfully greeted their Commander, with both diligence and some awe, but did not give the woman on his arm, Catiua, a second glance. The men likely thought her some courtesan or wench he planned to take to his bed. Certainly, she did not blame them for their assumptions; had Denam not been so devout in Prancet's lessons, he might well have. The Bakram woman preferred the lack of attention; she was not nearly vain enough, or comfortable enough with her new power, to need followers who surrounded her at all times – something the servants had yet to figure out. She held back her look of disgust.

"The Commander?" The servant looked genuinely confused at the name. Of course; these women wouldn't have known Denam before he became leader of the Resistance, he had already been commander for some time by the time Phidoch fell. Given how formal he could be on occasion, Catiua did not doubt they were truly unaware of his name – or, more likely, they simply did not care. Catiua nodded sternly and glared; she made sure they knew exactly what they thought of their ignorance. They did not even know the man they served! But could she really fault them? Was it Denam's fault, or theirs? She would not have been surprised if they called him 'Butcher of Golyat' behind his back. The servant shied away from Catiua's look of reprimand and spoke rapidly, in an attempt to appease her. "I'm not sure, Princess. He usually keeps to himself, but if I was to venture a guess, I'd say he's either on the training grounds, in his meeting room, or in his chambers. If what I've heard is correct, most of his informal meetings occur in his chambers."

Catiua briefly analyzed the situation; no doubt it was late enough that Denam had already trained, if he planned to, for he had been up for at least an hour or two. Catiua knew of the meeting chamber the servant spoke of, and knew 'twas far too large for any day-to-day activities, which left the last option. There was no doubt Denam was in his chamber. Goal in mind, Catiua pushed herself past the servants with such speed that the three women all jumped back in surprised unison. "Bring me to his chambers, then." None of them moved and they all glanced nervously to each other. Perhaps they thought her inappropriately bold, to privately meet with the commander; Catiua could almost see the cogs in their mind work as they came up with whatever ridiculous reasons for her meeting to gossip about once their work was done. She only barely held back her annoyed sigh as she walked through her guest room to the door. She did not care which of them guided her, only that they stopped gawking at her like the fools they were. "Oh!" To interrupt the servants who continued to glance about as if they drew sticks in a child's game of chance, Catiua made great effort to feign surprise, similarly to how she would react if she remembered something incredibly important. "While you're at it, send my morning meal there as well."

The three servants looked to and fro once again – one of them even had the gall to smile wickedly - before the youngest of the servants finally nodded and took a step forward. "Yes, Your Highness." The young woman curtsied as deeply as she could before she walked past Catiua and out of the room into the hallway. The Princess looked to two who remained and motioned with her head for them to do as she previously ordered; slow as molasses, the two approached her, one respectful enough that she held the door open, and finally they were on their way – with what appeared to be the eldest as her guide.

The halls gave forth a feeling that was surprisingly reminiscent of her time in Phidoch with Lodis. There was an uncomfortable air, as if the natives were not particularly comfortable with Resistance occupation, but accepted it, as they had with Loslorien's. It was bright, but the hallways did not hold a multitude of windows, as Phidoch was a fort first and everything else second, and they held an almost ethereal glow with what little light did enter them. The shadowy halls complimented her dark dress well, and her footsteps echoed down the hallway loudly enough that it reminded her of Tartaros and his guidance through Phidoch when she first arrived; how odd it was that she looked back fondly at the event, despite her depression. Or perhaps 'fondly' was incorrect; he had simply acted the part of what she needed most, given her the purpose and determination she had desperately lacked. Denam, no matter what she felt for him, was too familiar; he could not have given her that push even if he wanted to.

Catiua's presence in the Resistance was new enough that not everyone recognized her on sight, even though Denam made a prolonged introduction in the great hall to the soldiers and had, more privately, introduced her to his newest captains that she had not had the pleasure – or displeasure – of previously meeting with. Most noteworthy was the Phoraena woman, daughter of the presently-Abuna Mreuva. Initially, her name had been one of the many she offhandedly nodded pleasantly at, but thought she would forget within the hour - at least until Denam had hinted, with little to no subtlety, that they had been acquainted when they were children. Catiua's mind worked frantically then, flooded with memories that she had thought long forgotten. Yes – she remembered, to some extent. Some part of her disliked Olivya on instinct, almost an innate aversion, like to a snake, even though she knew she had no reason to be so wary. 'Twas probably some ridiculous childhood distaste for the Sibyl; perhaps she once stole Catiua's favored doll. She'd get over it, even if the Princess was not quite fond of the way the Sibyl doted on Denam. When they had spoken, Olivya had offhandedly made mention of Sherri, another of her sisters. When the Princess confronted Denam about the other woman later, he very quietly confided that the Phoraena woman apparently once worked with Brantyn Morne – and of how she had been unable to reconcile with Denam's decision to ally with Lodis. The elder woman had apparently left the Resistance shortly after she joined, and Olivya was the only one who remained with Mreuva.

'Twas not until later, long after the introductions had ended and she retired to her new room for the evening, that Catiua realized the implications of Olivya Phoraena and Denam's relationship. Though Catiua had long known about Prancet and how he had taken the two from Heim, Denam had not remembered – though she had tried to tell him. A part of her wanted to ask how he felt, if she could help him in any way with acceptance of who he was; another part of her knew he wanted to come to terms with it on his own. After much internal debate, she finally decided to let it rest for a time, at least until both she and he had reacclimatized and were comfortable in each others' presences. Catiua had already tried to use the truth to hurt him and stop him once in the past, to do so again would only bring back the memories neither of them wished to experience again.

Denam had also spoken of a few of his other captains – a man named Hobyrim and the Loslorien commander Ozma, a woman Catiua had met formally on a few occasions, but knew little of the circumstances regarding her departure from Tartaros's Order – who had left as well. The names meant little to her, but as Denam explained the Resistance's reaction to his decision, she felt a pang of sympathy for the commander, who had sacrificed companionship for his duty– but also anger that he chose to go so far, as he did the same thing to her. He should have learned the first time. Though the Bakram woman had yet to learn the extent of the situation, and she most certainly planned to, she could barely fathom what went through his mind when he finally made such a decision. It was as if some young, naive part of his mind had been lost, and the hard decisions came more easily for him than in the past – or he simply pretended they did. It was the same with Catiua;He wanted to save her, but it conflicted with what he felt was necessary. In the end he had found a way to do both, even if at the expense of his morals and friendships. Some part of herself knew that someday she, too, would be forced to make such decisions and she was chilled to her core at the very idea. It was at thoughts like those that she knew she was nowhere near ready for what the position she was born to demanded of her.

Officially, Catiua was in Phidoch as both Princess and a representative of the Lodissian –Resistance "alliance" - or, more accurately, if Denam was to be believed, "Neutrality agreement." She had no idea what it meant for her, what she was expected to do and say; given the way she had been simply handed off to Denam she was ready to believe that there was more to the agreement than what Denam told her, or what Lanselot and Balxephon had told Denam. She knew she was useful to Lodis and that they would not allow her to forget her promises she had made to them but she also recognized her lack of bartering power to make great demands in return. She was little more than a tool. It seemed entirely too odd to her that they would hand such an asset off to the Resistance weaken their position politically. There was no doubt Loslorien felt pressure from both sides, Resistance and Brantyn, but that would not be enough. Denam had quite a bit to answer for when it came to the Empire. Fortunately, she and her servant guide seemed to have reached his room, so she might not have to wait long for those answers.

The servant spoke with a pair of stern Knights who stood on guard outside what was, apparently, Denam's room. The men were unfamiliar to her, just as she had not recognized most of the Resistance soldiers she saw; she was secretly pleased that she had not appeared foolish when she belatedly noticed that they had not recognized her until the servant declared who she was and that she requested an audience. Though both men bowed respectfully, one of them gave Catiua a glare that told her he did not approve of her; he served his commander, not the Princess. She offered him a smile in return; Catiua respected his decision, after all, she had done nothing to prove herself worthy of their loyalty – Great Father knew that Denam had earned it twice over. If she was given the choice she wouldn't follow herself, either; she above all knew she lacked knowledge and qualities for leadership. Perhaps such lessons were what Lodis sent her to Denam to learn. Unlikely, she was a better puppet if she had little hand in political decisions.

". . .Sir?" Catiua heard the servant meekly address Denam as the guards let her pass. Even from the partially-opened door she could see in an instant that she knew the room. That was Tartaros's room, or, rather, the room used by the current master of the castle whoever he or she may be. The Bakram woman had spent many hours in there in silence as she watched Tartaros see to his responsibilities. He was a surprisingly busy man, even though Catiua also knew he left much of the administrative duties to Balxephon. After what seemed to be an hour, Denam finally glanced up at his guest, the still nervous servant, and placed his quill in the inkwell. Catiua felt a sudden bout of annoyance pass through her at his disregard for guests.

"Ugh, enough of this." Catiua refused to be 'allowed' to visit Denam's room. She would enter and leave as she pleased. Before Denam could even glance at her, the Princess pushed her way through the open door, to the shock of the guards who had thought her docile; all at once the entire entryway sprang to action, sans Denam, who sat at the end of the table and barely bothered to do more than smile as he watched her brash actions. Catiua was immediately, uncomfortably, grasped by the armored glove of one of Denam's guards and prevented from further entry with a dagger into the curve of her back. She hissed in pain, but tugged stubbornly until Denam, who hid a smile, nodded to the Knights and made a dismissive motion to both they and the servant. For a moment, time stood still as her captors very gently released her. She withdrew from their grasp and massaged her sore wrists as she patted down her dress, frown on her features. True, she had been irrational, but Catiua could not resist the urge to get the last word in and turned and glared at all three as they hastily made their exit without another word. As the door closed behind them, the Princess pasted a smile on her face and turned back. "Good morning, Denam."

"Well met." She could tell he wanted to laugh at her, and she knew she deserved it, but she was pleased not only to have gotten in, but to see Denam in high spirits. Catiua let her smile drop as she approached and Denam stood to greet her. "You're up early." He pulled out a chair to his right for her, as he always had for their meals, but unlike when they were younger, there was no warm hug or kiss of greeting. Catiua knew she should not have expected one, but some part of her felt. . .empty without it. Lonely. It was she who asked they treat each other as individuals and not siblings, yet some part of her was still unable to accept her own wishes, rationality be damned. She pushed the thought from her head; there was time for affection later, she had more important things on her mind.

"I thought to break my fast with you," Denam poured a glass of water for her as Catiua glanced over the table, but chose not to sit in the place Denam prepared. She held back her smile as she saw there was no evidence of food, just as she had planned. She allowed her voice to take on a playful tone; if Denam wouldn't care for himself, would have to do so for him. "- but it seems you already have."

"I'll do so lat-" He immediately fell silent as he realized what he had revealed. Catiua could not stop her giggle as she watched his features turn from pleasant to sour and then into a glare in her direction. The Princess ignored him and turned away, before she walked back over to the door she had entered from only a moment before. She opened it slowly, to not alarm the Knight guards, and poked her head out. "The commander wishes for his morning meal." She declared and slammed it before either could respond.

". . .Thank you." Was his hesitant reply as he looked away in shame and sat back down at his place at the top of the table where he earlier worked at. The previous day, during their midday meal and during their supper, the Bakram woman had spent some time in lecture about how he should take care of himself, yet _still _she had not gotten through. If Catiua must break her fast every day with him to dig her point into his baldur-ridden head, she would do so without complaints. For that matter, 'twould do her some good to watch his day-to-day actions, which she had cared little for in the past. She could no longer avoid responsibility, or so she told herself. _What responsibility_? A little voice in the back of her head spoke up; its whisper alarmed and mocked her. Her only responsibility was to look lovely and keep the nobility pacified, it ridiculed. The Princess was if unsure she was even capable of doing what was assigned to her, let alone if she even _wanted_ to. She quickly pushed the thought away; Catiua had made up her mind, she would be Versalia. _When did you decide?_ The voice was firmer then – and she had no answer, for 'twas certainly not _Catiua_ who made the decision. All she could tell herself was that as long as Denam was there with her, she could do it – or so she hoped.

"So these are the Resistance commander's chambers?" Catiua made effort to appear genuinely curious as she walked about, through both his meeting chamber, where she had entered from, and into his private quarters. Despite being occupied by Lodis for over a year, the chambers did not_ feel_ like Tartaros or Loslorien. It was not _quite_ the Denam she knew, but all at once she would never believe the rooms belonged to anyone else. His mark was everywhere, with the way he organized his parchment, pillows, chairs, clothes, weapons, and armor. Even the smell was familiar. She felt Denam's eyes on her as she walked about before she realized what she'd done; to walk about an adult male's chambers, even one she had known for years, was thoroughly inappropriate, especially after they had only just reunited. Even though she found such traditions rather musty, she knew Denam took them seriously. The woman clenched her jaw as her mind worked frantically to think of a subject to talk about. Immediately, one came to mind as she turned out of his room and back towards the table her companion remained at in the meeting chamber. She remained standing as she looked pointedly at the commander, who had put aside his parchments entirely to give her his full attention. "I did not quite believe you when you said the Resistance was gone." She gave him an accusatory and pointed look. "Rightfully so, it seems!"

"I never said 'twas 'gone,' I believe the phrase was 'unrecognizable.'" She knew he was irritated at Catiua's question, but he did not show it. He had never been fond of those who questioned his competence once he felt he had already proven it. A brief flash of memory filled her at the thought: Rhime, Leonar, Ronwey's assassination. Catiua had told Denam he was no leader and was unable to do the job, saying he was mad and deluded in a desperate attempt to dissuade him from his path. That had been one of the last turning points for them; she had seen the pain in his eyes – which had already suffered from the decision he was forced to make – and how he took to heart her belief that he was unworthy. She had been harsh then, and she saw how wrong she was many scales later. But whether or not he would be a better leader than Ronwey was still left to be decided by history – and Lodis.

She supposed he told the truth, even if she found his play on words almost as irritating as he found her questions. The air between the Resistance soldiers _was_ different; she could not place it, but 'twas cold, professional, perhaps. The soldiers she had seen, which were admittedly only of higher rank, were more experienced and less everyday rabble, like much of her prior experience with Resistance forces were. But 'unrecognizable' still did not explain the most important question, one she believed she knew the answer to – one she had avoided thinking about, but knew she could evade no longer.

"Where's Vyce?" Vyce had not come to greet her when she arrived, as she would have expected. 'Twas not until Denam had told her that certain captains had left that she felt the familiar dread that always came about from knowledge of the Walister man and his irrational actions. Or, perhaps, not so irrational; he despised Lodis. She _knew_ he was gone, her mind told her so, but her heart would not accept it. She did not blame Denam for hiding it from her. That Vyce had not interrupted her morning rituals only secured her doubt that he was not in Phidoch, no twists of words could make the truth any less apparent.

Almost instantly, Denam stood. Catiua stopped her paces about the room and waited for Denam to approach, which he did, more quickly than she would have thought possible. As he did so, he played with the back of his neck, but from her angle was unable to define his purpose. The commander continued to fiddle about for a moment, completely distracted from her presence, face twisted in an annoyed frown, before he finally succeeded at whatever 'twas he did, took her hand in his, and forced. . .his necklace into her grasp? Catiua did not know what to say. She blinked and ran her fingers over the metal, warm and very slightly oily from its touch against Denam's skin. "I believe this is yours." He murmured and turned away before she could give it back. _No_. It was not hers, she could barely think of taking the precious item from him. Even when all Denam, Catiua, and Vyce had left was the clothes on their backs, their lives, and the necklaces, Denam had still refused to sell them; it was just as precious to him as hers was to her, even if he was not entitled to it by his birth. Before Denam could take more than a step back away from her, the Bakram woman grasped his hand and forced the blue necklace – even if 'twas a gift from her father – back into his hand. Catiua knew Denam's plot; he had failed, but even she could admit 'twas a brilliant attempt. Had the subject of Vyce not been so important to her, she would have fallen for it. No, the Princess would not play his game. "There, 'tis yours now." Denam turned back around and held the necklace in his hand for a long moment and looked down at it with unreadable eyes, as if conflicted on what he should do next. Catiua would not give him the chance. "Do not change the subject, Denam; you will tell me where Vyce is."

". . ." He remained silent as he circled the necklace around his neck again. Catiua continued to glare at him; she knew he would relent given enough time. Almost on cue, once he finished putting the necklace on, he turned away and walked back to the table and sat, then he spoke, his words cautious and precisely chosen. "He and I had. . .a disagreement about how the Resistance should best deal with Lodis."

Even though he told her exactly what she anticipated, Catiua found herself breathless, terrified, and angered. "I-Is he. . .?" The Princess was unable to finish her sentence. Vyce had already left Denam and she once, it hurt her that he would do it again. Her emotions traveled between betrayal and acceptance, and how 'twas both painful and something that she completely understood. She suddenly felt very weak and moved over to the chair Denam had earlier pulled out for him and sat. She took a long sip of the water that had been poured and shivered at her imagination's very vivid image of a dead Vyce, impaled by a Resistance soldier's spear. She had almost lost Denam, she did not think she could stand to lose Vyce as well.

"He's fine." Denam spoke confidently, in attempt to reassure her. He failed miserably; she and Denam both knew Vyce was in pain, was lonely, and suffered from how he was pursued, if not by Denam, than by other groups. Even if his health was fine and he lived, that did not mean he was happy or safe. "I've my shadows on him. He, alongside a good number of former-Resistance troops, has reformed the Alliance." As the commander saw his words did not have their intended effect, he continued. "He only left a few days ago, do not worry."

"So the merging did not go as expected?" Was all Catiua could think to say as she looked down into the water in her cup. Of course it didn't – she remembered quite vividly the hostility Resistance and Alliance troops had for each other. Denam and Vyce had barely been able to keep the upper echelons of the orders from insults and mockery, let alone discrimination by class or Clan or belief. She had left Almorica and the Resistance soon after the two groups allied, but apparently they had not been able to reconcile their differences as hoped. The Walister people needed unity more than anything – and, for a time, Ronwey had given it to them. That was when the Resistance would have succeeded, and 'twas why Catiua believed that, even if incompetent and biased as a leader, he was still the best they had. Denam did not have the reputation for it, hero or nor, nor did Leonar.

"For a time it did." He explained. She still did not look at him, but she could tell by his tone that he regretted the way the news of Vyce's departure was revealed. At her wordless request, Catiua could tell he belatedly remembered that she did not know the full depth of the situation and sought to alleviate her lack of knowledge on the subject. From his tone, she could tell he felt a bit foolish. "'Twas only more recently that certain issues kept us from unity. Vyce and I decided the best option was for him to leave. You and I both know there were tensions between groups. While I'd like to say we parted on good terms, unfortunately we had an argument and he left with a good number of our troops." The commander spoke only the words she had just mused on; Catiua nodded acknowledgement and understanding as she regained control of her emotions from their previous outburst. No longer did her mind see pictures of a fallen, broken Vyce, and instead rediscovered its rationality. The moment of utter despair faded away as her curiosity and responsibility got the better of her. She had missed so much – or, rather, she knew so little. What Denam spoke casually of overwhelmed her, especially as she knew there were subtle intricacies involved that she likely had not even considered. When she was with the Resistance before, she had cared little for politics, loathed them even, in fact, but Tartaros had shown her their necessity. She was to be Queen, she _must_ learn and experience firsthand what qualities were necessary in leadership. She could not simply follow Denam's lead forever. _You must take a stand. _The voice of Lanselot Tartaros echoed through her mind in one of her most powerful recent memories. He had told her that there were things only she could do – that she _must_ do. She had clung to those words, and still did, until they became a part of her, a subtle self-manipulation.

"I admit Denam, you speak so casually that I'm quite overwhelmed." She spoke her thoughts in a low voice. "I've missed so much. I want to learn; please, start at the beginning. Tell me what I have missed." She had to start somewhere, and knowledge was the best place. It would also answer her questions and possibly give her insights into Denam's dilemmas – and future plans. Knowledge only advanced her position, even if she had no idea what she should do with it. She wished she could say she was so selfless enough that she learned only because 'twas her duty as princess, but that was a lie. If she spoke truly to herself, her hunger for the truth was not about being Princess at all. Catiua only wished to be on the same as Denam and Vyce, to not watch them only from behind, to stand beside them as equal, not as simply the one they cared for and protected.

Before the commander could reply, a loud knock on the door sounded. Catiua almost jumped at its persistence, her water only barely stopped from its spill over her dress, and Denam looked irritated, but he called for entry. If the Knights had allowed whoever the guest was to knock, then more than likely he or she meant no harm. The Princess watched as, instinctively, her companion grasped his hand on his blade's hilt, the only object of war that he war without his armor on, but relaxed as two servants entered. The two each with large trays topped with the morning meal Catiua had ordered, or demanded, to be sent to them both. She was surprised at how long it took for it to arrive; usually the kitchens were efficient in the morning, mass of soldiers or no. The servants placed the food – mostly breads and native Valerian fruits – in front of them before they hurriedly exited, well aware of the commander's annoyance. They were forgotten before they even left the room. Habitually, Catiua allowed Denam the first bite. He did little more than pick at his food but Catiua smiled with fondness as he picked up and ate what she knew to be his favorite flavor muffin. Some things would never change; her mood lightened as she, too, started her food, their meal comfortable and silent beyond the clink of silverware.

"Of course." He broke the silence some time later, only after Catiua had stopped her glares that were meant to ensure he ate enough to at least be considered healthy. He wanted to continue their earlier conversation, but seemed hesitant - "Where would you like me to begin?" – as if he didn't know where to start.

"Anywhere." It would take her some time to fully understand the extent of the situation, but at the very least he could tell her the current state of affairs. "Tell me everything you know; if I am to be Princess, I am not going to be a simple figurehead who sits about. I want to assist you." Denam met her eyes and smiled at that, positive and proud, as if he greatly approved. He had never given her a look like that before; Catiua allowed herself a moment of vain satisfaction and pleasure, but both were soon overwritten by an intense regret. He never would have given _Catiua the woman_ such a proud look, only _Catiua the responsible Princess_. It was almost as if he wished for such theatre. The moment of pride was short-lived and the emotion fell away from the man's features as he averted his eyes.

"It's unpleasant and dirty work, best leave most of it to me." Catiua held back her hiss of distaste as best she could and almost bore a hole through Denam with her glare until he relented with an exasperated breath and a long sip of water. "Are you sure?" He looked deadly serious; she had no doubt the issues that plagued a commander were thoroughly overwhelming, but she could not afford to sit about and pretend they were not there. _You are to be Queen, you represent your country! _Again Tartaros spoke into her mind. Even as she repeated the words to herself, the Bakram woman felt a stubborn doubt arise at the back of her mind; she was terrified. 'Twas far easier to avert her eyes and let Denam deal with the war while she remained an onlooker. He was strong, she was not. She shook the thought away as best she could; one did not get over their fears by running away with them. She was not young enough to believe that problems went away if she ignored them. If Denam could shoulder the burden, she could as well; she must. "Never before have I been so confident in my wishes." A white lie, but not a harmful one. She knew Denam would hold back if he noticed any hesitation at all. In some way, the Princess knew she should be proud of herself, satisfied that she had taken a step towards her independence, but the topic only filled her with worry, and her doubt persisted, stronger than ever.

"To be honest, Vyce and the Alliance were the least of my issues. The Galgastani rebellion resurged some time ago and there was a brief bout of civil unrest." Galgastani rebellion? Catiua assumed he had dealt with the Galgastani when he took Coritanae, but apparently not. That or a new faction that arose. She wanted to scold Denam for continuing to speak as if she knew what he referred to, but decided against it, as it had been difficult enough to get the man to elaborate in the first place. She could put the pieces together on this particular subject easily enough. "We've weathered this particular storm well and thus far, Ravness and Juenan – he's a Galgastani from Brigantys –" Denam, who seemed almost impassioned, caught his mistake with the names, and for that she was thankful, but what surprised her more was that he had come into contact with Ravness yet again. By some odd twist in fate, or some sinister plot, that woman seemed unable to stay away from Denam. Catiua found it suspicious "- have done well. They're in command of my forces at Coritanae, but it appears that Resistance occupation of the region is not going to end any time soon."

He spoke the somber report without a trace of emotion as he took a bite of his food. Catiua blinked as she let the news wash over her. It seemed Galgastan persisted in its stubbornness even after Denam brought it to its knees. If nothing else, she could not help but respect their tenacity, even if it only served to make life more difficult. "So, you do not have full access to your troops?" She cautiously questioned, in hopes she understood what he said. The Galgastani were a huge people; if even a third of their army had submitted to the Resistance, then Denam's numbers would have at least doubled. Denam likely had to send a large number of Galgastani forces to deal with the usurpers, which left his strength greatly diminished. Her view of Denam's rather desperate situation became clearer.

"Yes – and in more than that area." Catiua was unsure of what could be worse than having to send a good portion of his troops away to deal with a rebellion. Denam's eyebrows drew close together and he stabbed at one of the fruits purposefully. She knew he tried to find a way to word his dilemma, but something about his hesitation set her on edge. "Rumors spread for a time, but I, ah, believe they are under control for now." Yes, there was definitely hesitation. Catiua blinked and realized what she did, and had continued to do even without her knowledge. Why was she so distrustful? Denam was not a boy anymore, he was entitled to his secrets, so long as he did not lie or hold back imperative information. Still, the little part of her mind that was still an elder sister was angry that he was so evasive. She closed her eyes as her mind worked in circles for a moment before she finally decided to trust the man. She would not delude herself into thinking that he did not elaborate because he thought the information would overwhelm her – most likely the rumors were unpleasant and had to deal with him and possibly even his personal life. She could respect his desire to not speak them.

"You know of the Burnham Tigers?" He changed the subject abruptly. Catiua nodded; everyone who had spent prolonged time in southern Valeria knew of them; officially, they were members of the Order of Philaha, but more secretly, she had heard they were loyal to the Regent. Their groups were not united; some members certainly did not act as loyals of the Church would; then again, neither did the Templar Knights Loslorien. "They're on the rise as well. Many of our members desert to join them, especially as I've gained power." Despite what she would have thought, there was no bitterness at the admission, only quiet, shamed acceptance that some would rather follow the Bakram than he. "I also deal with civil unrest; when you were with Loslorien, there were many who abandoned us to support your claim, as they felt we rejected it. Even more left for the church – fortunately, I was able to secure an alliance with the latter and, as you might have expected, the former has been quelled. I believe that many of their number will return to us, or so I hope." He shrugged. "That's really only the start of it; we've also had more isolated incidents that haven't led to more trouble – yet." He laughed dryly as he looked to the roof and mused on his next words. "Truth be told, I was, perhaps, a tad irrational, but at the time I had no other choice."

"A 'tad.'" Her tone was equally dry and lacked amusement. She definitely saw how dreary his situation had been; his worn look and changed attitude certainly fit, yet she could not help but wonder if he had not simply signed his death ledger in attempt to grasp onto what little support he had left. There was no point in criticism; what was done was done. She could not alter his decisions or change the past. "So your numbers dwindled. Despite gaining power and influence, you lost ground." She received a firm nod in return for her analysis. "Thus, your alliance with Lodis – which I'd assume also upset quite a few." He nodded again.** "**So, now that I'm here, you _could_ simply remove yourself from your agreement, yes?" Her comment was offhand and she certainly did not expect him to do so, as 'twas more a curious question than an honest one. The Princess would have been angry if he broke his oath; she was pleased to be beside Denam again, but they were brought together only through the grace of what appeared to be the incompetent state of the Resistance, the commander understood and accepted his weak position. Perhaps being humbled did him good; that 'Hero of Golyat' bit had gone to his head, after all.

She clearly saw that Denam did not feel the same as she about the Empire. He more than likely felt that his alliance betrayed his beliefs, just as Vyce did, but recognized that he was pushed into a corner and had no choice. There was no loyalty to the country he had pleaded to, only deeply ingrained bitterness. ". . .If only 'twere that easy." He breathed. An odd reaction, unexpected; she would have thought him more willing to turn Lodis away, given the chance.

"It's not?" Her words were all but a demand, more curious than accusatory; she knew his reasons likely went back to what he had promised the empire. Denam's treaty was one of the issues she was determined to get out of the man, even if the Princess had to force him to stay in his room all day with her. Tartaros would not have handed her away like a piece in some game, he had to have some purpose.

"What happens when we defeat Brantyn and if we push Lodis out? Will we have the strength to deal with the full power of the Empire's Orders?" He did not expect an answer and spoke with casual ease despite the subject. "Loslorien is but one. What if they return? Lanselot may not have told you, but father – Prancet – told me they seek some relic of Doraglua's." The name of the man who had raised them caught Catiua's attention more than the name of her father. Prancet was an odd man, she had not realized how little she knew of him until the last few years; he knew more than he let on, in subjects he should have known very little about. The last Catiua had heard about him was Tartaros and his offer to visit – she had not-so-respectfully declined in her anger towards him. After that she simply assumed him dead. Apparently not the case, it seemed, if Denam had spoken with him. "You were simply a tool of theirs to obtain it." The Princess disagreed. She had been told something to the effect, not the details of course, but knew what Denam referenced had been only one aspect of Tartaros and his overall plan. The higher ranks had been surprisingly open about her purpose; in some ways, it was a welcome change to the constant feigned flattery of the nobility she had been introduced to, who used her only to further their own influence.

Catiua continued to muse on her companion's words, but 'twas clear that he had missed her subtle hints entirely. She had not asked him about removing Lodis from the Isles, she wanted to know more about their personal agreement, and why Denam had been so utterly horrified when he finally understood its terms. That Lodis would have a presence in the isles was something she still believed beneficial, at least for a time. Valeria was not strong enough to stand on its feet, not yet. Whether or not Denam made matters worse was yet to be seen, but Catiua did not believe he could have promised anything a Princess was incapable of.

"'Twas Tartaros who supported and crowned me in the first place; it makes no sense for Lodis to suddenly deny my right to rule. Or betray me – us, even if we disagree with their politics. We have political leverage, even if only in the form of my necessity to their plans." She pointed out factually. Emotions would not adhere to Denam's better judgment when it came to his decisions; he was far too pragmatic for that.

"Little more than fancy words and empty promises." He was almost dismissive in his cynicism. She almost felt as if he spoke to her like he would a child. She did not appreciate his unintentional condescension. "Lodis is very different from Valeria. We are much like a small insect to them. We've something they want, and they will do what they must to obtain it."

Catiua frowned and shook her head. She could certainly understand his intentions, but she did not agree with them. The Princess had spent prolonged time with Loslorien; not all were the foul things she and Denam had been led to believe after Golyat were true – though she certainly could not deny there was _some_ truth to them. Martym and Barbas were monsters, through and through. They had never once showed her a modicum of respect or tolerance – even if they only acted that way towards her, an Islander, she loathed them. It surprised and, to some extent, amused her that Denam held onto his grudges so firmly. He was more like Vyce than he would admit, or perhaps Vyce had finally left his mark on him. "I believe Tartaros does not wish for these islands to fall into chaos. He was the one who stopped Brantyn's rampage into Southern Valeria before Golyat, if you remember" The commander nodded cautiously, but Catiua could tell he was annoyed at how she defended a man they once considered enemy. 'Twas her turn to feel as if she lectured a child; Lodis was an ally, Denam could not afford to reject them. "If I'm on the throne and the Isles are at peace, the world community would be required to take notice if Lodis moved against us."

His nod was more confident as he spoke. "Yes, I've staked quite a bit on that." Was all he said, but he clearly held back his distaste. 'Twas fine with her, she did not wish to hear his childish rants. He had acted just as cruelly as Lodis – she would not bring up Balmamusa _again_, but was that any different? As if on cue, a moment later he decided to persist on the exact topic that Catiua had no desire to progress into. "As long as we are here, it does not suit Loslorien for the Resistance to lose." 'We?' Other than herself, she did not know who he referred to, certainly not Denam himself. The Resistance, perhaps. "Once Heim falls and Valeria is united, I cannot make that guarantee any longer." Catiua frowned and continued to watch Denam as emotions flashed over his features before they were quickly locked away, all unreadable, all little more than a whisper. There were definite subtle meanings behind his words, ones that went beyond their disagreement about Lodis and its influence, but she could not define what they were. She did not like that one bit; this entire point of this discussion was about Denam and how he was to tell her everything relevant he knew.

"I take it you're still not going to tell me what you allude to." The Princess was not going to let the commander off so easily.

"It is as I said." His tone was just as obstinate as hers and it became immediately apparent that neither would back down. The previously-pleasant atmosphere turned chill as both looked stubbornly at each other; these events were not particularly uncommon between the two, even before the war, but with their relationship still as rocky as the harsh cliffs of northern Valeria, it immediately became apparent that neither would back down.

"Yes, but there's more to it than that. Something about the alliance with Lodis distresses you." Something that was more than his petty grudge; the Denam she knew would not have let simple distaste break him down. Catiua pressed on the tension without care that it would snap; she had the chance to pursue the subject Denam had subtly avoided over their meal.

"There really isn't." Rather than snapping, the tension fell away with that, replaced with a chill in the room that had nothing to do with the air. "When I. . .In Rhime, I realized what Balxephon planned in regards to this 'agreement.' I am. . .unsure if I will be able to stay in Valeria once the war ends."

"What? But why?" She spoke out instinctively, before she could control herself. The words left her lips before the thought even formed in her mind. The Bakram woman's dream had been to live in peace with Denam and Vyce; she would not let it fall away so easily. She may be doubtful in many other regards, but this she would persist in until her final breath left her.

"Look at what I've done. Do you honestly believe the people will wish me to remain in any position of power? Besides. . ." She could think of no words to respond with as he trailed off. Even _she_ had not wished him to be in power at one point, if for different reasons. He had that resolute look about him again, and Catiua knew he was about to be incredibly foolish. "When this is through, I will surrender myself to the law and allow social justice to take its course."

"You fool!" She hissed and, to both she and Denam's surprise, she slammed her fist against the table in reactive passion that would have put Vyce to shame. "You speak as if getting killed will make Valeria a better place! I've never understood this primal desire of yours to seemingly take upon pain and wallow in your misery."

"Because I can endure it. If I can stop one person's –" She knew what he was going to say and also knew that unless she interrupted him, he would go on as powerful of rant as she was about to. She interrupted him as quickly as she could; if she let Denam have his word in, their argument would never end.

"But why _should_ you have to? Why is it always you? Never anyone else?" She was not child enough to call it 'unfair,' even if that was what she felt it was. He was never like this before; he had purpose, a goal, and would not have simply allowed himself to fall into darkness because he felt 'twas 'responsibility.' When had he gone so wrong? Was it Vyce? Perhaps 'twas even her. _Yes_, she saw it. After she left, he had nothing left but the Resistance and Valeria, so unlike when he had Vyce and Catiua as companions and purpose, he put all of his heart into the army – and his heart had been shattered by Lodis when he realized he lacked the strength to succeed. Catiua suddenly felt very small and had to force her mouth closed. She had been so selfish, so childish, so irrational. There was no way for her to make it up to him other than by making sure it never happened again. "I will take it from you."

"What?" He looked horrified – no, more than that. He looked completely overwhelmed, even flabbergasted by Catiua's stubborn declaration, as if it made no sense to him. Or, if it did, he was so against it he could not find the words to properly vocalize his thoughts. He worked his mouth but nothing came forth; Catiua took the initiative in his moment of hesitation. She would not back down, she refused.

"If you wish to shoulder the burden, then its weight will fall onto me as well." She clarified factually, with as best no-nonsense tone as she could muster.

"Stop this." He was just as stern. She spoke again before he could continue, best let the man get as little word in as possible. If she had to layer on her attacks to get a point across, so be it.

"No. You will listen to how mad you sound. I have power, and, like you, many will be upset at my rise when Brantyn falls, as not only do I cause revolution, but I am not even nobility beyond my father's blood. Just like you, the populace will be angry that I've put Valeria under Lodis's. . .protection. Many will be angry that I seek a unified country, they do not want to put under one name." Vyce immediately flashed in her mind; he was one who embodied those thoughts, one who rejected such unity in favor of separate-but-equal people. Catiua would make sure he understood – he _must_. In truth, 'twas the first time she had ever vocalized such thoughts, and acknowledged that only she had the strength to fulfill them. In some ways, she found she only repeated what Tartaros had said to her, ingrained deeply into her being, but in others she knew she spoke her true desires. Which was which, she was still unsure. Finally, she looked down to her lap and whispered what she had tried to avoid, because she had little else to say. "It's unfair for you to solely take the blame."

"Unfair, perhaps, but it's the best-"

"Do not interrupt your superior." Denam's eyes widened at the words, and even Catiua was surprised she dared take on that tone with him. She hated that she was forced into such a position where she must reject him entirely, even distance him in a way she feared more than anything, but he'd be damned before he listened to her in any other situation than if she ordered it. His refusal brought forth only more anger and suddenly, the words sprang from her lips uninhibited once again, accompanied by a vivid memory, one that she knew would provoke emotion in Denam almost as much as it did her. "So you wish to become my Leonar? To take all of the evils onto yourself so that I remain pure?"

"Yes." There was no emotion, only an obstinate refusal to give in. It only provoked her further and she trembled in anger and frustration, unable to control her emotions any longer.

"No! I will not allow it." She stood up, ignoring the loud, obnoxious sound of the chair that was pushed back behind her as she almost yelled to emphasize her point. "As always you fail to grasp the simplest of subjects. How do you think I would feel if you simply allowed yourself to be killed?" This was not the first time she had used that argument – he had not responded to it before she left for Lodis, and he would not respond now. But she could not simply pretend she felt nothing, not any longer. "I'll tell you – I would be saddened, because you're the only one who understands. But it's more than that; you see me as Catiua, without you I would truly be alone. Not in the manner of some ridiculous tantrum I had before – I'd be well and truly a figurehead that no one saw beyond their position in power."

She breathed hard as she ranted, unable to stop herself. She felt tears spring to her eyes from her explosion of emotions, both rage and sadness, as she revealed the thoughts she had kept hidden the day previous. Neither of them would find peace together until both released the emotions that lay heavily on their hearts. She did not care if Denam looked or listened to her; she paid him no heed any longer as she looked ahead into nothing, sight blurred, only the vague outline of brown, grey, and off-white of the room in her vision. "I'd gamble ten-thousand Goth that you know what I speak of; I see it in the eyes of your troops. They look up to you as Resistance commander, not Denam. Would you have me suffer that same fate? Would you have me as only Queen and not a person?" Her eyes slowly cleared as she took deep breaths to control herself, but she still refused to look at Denam as the silence dragged. "We humanize each other. We are connected; loss of one is the loss of us both. I know you mean well, but your actions affect more than yourself." Vyce again passed through her mind and she could not help the wry smile that crossed over her features. "I'd bet even Vyce would be saddened at your death."

"Everything is already in place." She heard Denam speak and finally she allowed her sight to clear and her eyes to drift towards her companion. She was not in the most rational of mental states and could not read his emotions. His eyes were slightly downcast, as if he was ashamed, but that was all she could see. "Even if I choose not to, the Lodissians will force it." He sighed as he picked up his water and finished it in a long sip. "_That_ is why I reacted as I did yesterday. I would gamble that same ten-thousand Goth that Balxephon wants me free of political ties in Valeria – and he will do what he must to make it happen."

Catiua released a breath. Denam's calmness, feigned or no, was infectious and she felt her uncontrolled emotions drain in relief. She pulled the chair back behind her and sat down again, empty, but also satisfied. The Princess had concluded almost immediately when Denam entered her room in Rhime that he and Balxephon had been the ones who came to the agreement, but 'twas the first time Denam had openly, with no subtle hints or in references to another subject, admitted that the Lodissian was the one who he held hostility towards. Again the pieces came together. She could not meet Denam's gaze again as she very hesitantly changed the subject. "You're not the first I've heard such negativity about Balxephon from, but I admit other than Golyat, he's simply a bit intimidating, but was always respectful to me."

"If you view him that way, then he's doing his job effectively." Denam raised an eyebrow at how she defended the man. Just as she had earlier supported Tartaros, she had to make Denam understand her decision.

"Or perhaps I've simply seen them as human, where you still pointlessly villainize him." 'Twas usually Denam who spoke of acceptance and rationality, she felt odd in that she had to lecture him for once. He could not clamor for peace and unity is he was to force one ethnic group out of it, even if they were a minority much, much smaller than the Walister. No, she corrected herself, Denam did not hate Lodissians: he hated Loslorien. Perhaps the commander had yet to make the distinction in his head. "What do you mean Loslorien will 'force it'?" A bold question, one that she had attempted to get him to answer for some time and finally had the perfect opportunity for. 'Twas impossible for Denam to avoid it without walking out of the room entirely.

"'Tis more a feeling. I've no proof, not yet, but. . ." To her surprise, he responded immediately, not with the delay she would have thought. He was hesitant and conflicted as he chose his words carefully, but he was quite blunt and did not seem to hide anything from her. "It's not my tale to tell, truly, and I respect the teller enough not to disregard his wishes for secrecy. Even I was not told everything, but I do know that Balxephon's time is limited; he made a mistake that he will soon pay for." Whoever had spoken to Denam must have made a good case, if the commander was so set in his ways. "'Tis not Tartaros who has any interest in me, but my existence resolves any uncertain political factors that would arise in case of an untimely death or loss of political power –Lanselot simply plays along because Balxephon's plan secures his position if such an event occurs." He seemed bitter. "In fact, it might even be _more_ secure once Balxephon is gone."

So there 'twas: the truth. Yet somehow his clarification had only confounded her more and she felt the hazy details only grew foggier. Denam was no royalty or noble, other than his skill with strategy – for Vyce was certainly better with weapons – and charisma, he was not particularly useful for Loslorien, let alone Lodis. As she mused further, she remembered his earlier words, the ones that had angered her: he would take all of the blame for what happened on Valeria. The thought, paired with his admission, made more sense. 'Twas Denam who would shoulder any mistakes and deaths Loslorien caused, and the Dark Knights and Lodis would be free of condemnation. It really was quite brilliant; it seemed she had underestimated Balxephon after all. Then what did Balxephon's death have to do with matters? She was absolutely sure that Denam would not replace him in Loslorien, even if the greatest of duty demanded it, if that was what he implied.

The two fell into silence, both unsure what to say. Denam had never responded to her earlier attacks or reassured her that he would be safe – she knew he never would - and she could almost hear his voice in her mind if she persisted on the matter that said 'Are you quite done?' Somehow she had to make him understand, but his head was harder than the stones that made up Phidoch. Catiua picked at what little remained of her meal and instead watched as Denam slowly finished his. He seemed distracted, as if he didn't taste the foods. She noticed his eyes glance to the side every so often and Catiua belatedly noticed the parchment. Of course – he was commander, he had work to do. Tartaros mostly gave the orders to Balxephon to deal with, so he was not so overwhelmed, it seemed Denam did not do similarly and instead chose to deal with the intricacies of politics himself. The Princess would need to change the way Denam worked within the next few days; perhaps she would be able to give Denam more free time. Then the stubborn commander could use that 'there's been no time' excuse when it came to his health.

". . .What do we do now?" Catiua broke the silence after a time. Denam glanced up at her and made a curious grunt that she only took as 'hnn?' before she continued. "I do not wish to sit around – I had enough of that while I was with Loslorien. I wish to act, as we both must do if we wish to unite the country."

The commander chewed his food in the prolonged silence before he swallowed and nodded, more to himself than her. "For now, we wait and plan." Catiua frowned; waiting around did nothing. "Do not give me that look; we must secure our forces and numbers. Taking Heim will be difficult; it was built entirely to withstand assault and even if we've greater numbers, they could rout us by their sheer defensive strength. We have only one chance, we must be absolutely sure of success." Catiua felt suitably reprimanded; Denam knew more on the subject of war than she did. "But – and forgive me if I speak out of place – your rule starts now." She definitely sensed hostility in his tone and cringed away. She deserved his tone for her earlier cruel words that dismissed him by rank, even if they had been a necessity. "To wait about is pointless." His declaration mimicked her thoughts and, to some extent calmed her. They both had the same will after all. "Make your presence known, speak your beliefs aloud. Show the Island you are no tool of Lodis. A Queen is nothing without the support and love of her people; it is they who lift you up. You give them that chance to rise on their own."

"I. . ." The words slipped away from the Princess as she considered the importance of her companion's statement. 'Twas too late to take her oath back as she realized the extent of her promise when she earlier stated she would she share a part of his responsibility. There were so many who looked toward Versalia for a better future, so many who believed in her for her blood alone; they did not recognize her as a woman, she was a creature of legend, royalty, to the commons. She was all they had. When she had been with Loslorien, she never had the chance to truly think on any of the implications of power; Tartaros had promised he would put her on the throne with no issues and she had simply accepted without thought on what it truly meant. She suddenly realized why Denam looked like he had aged within the past scales; she certainly felt pressure weigh down on her and, unlike the commander, she had no idea how to cope.

"Don't worry; you'll be fine." He offered her a reassuring smile that did little to calm her anxiety, but sent warmth and nostalgia through her. After what she'd done, she wondered if she deserved such support – _No_ – she knew she did not. Their short-lived calm would no doubt end soon. As Catiua, or Versalia Oberyth, looked toward the man who was not quite her brother – a little more, but also a little less – who finally pushed his plate to the side and pulled his quill and parchments back in front of him, she knew with utter certainty that the temporary peace had more meaning to her now than it ever had.

Denam had such faith in her, yet she had none of it in herself. All she could think about was the words she had spoken. Did she truly mean the promises, the oaths, of a better future, a united Valeria, or did she simply recite phrases given to her by Tartaros, meant to appease Denam, Lodis, and the people she would rule?

The more she mused on it, the more she realized she had no answer.


End file.
